The Hammer and The Nail
by fionasank
Summary: Destiel AU: To pay for his brother's medicine, Dean Winchester turns to a life of petty crime. But when he holds hostage Castiel Novak, son of a millionaire, and they're holed up together for days on end, suddenly he's in way over his head - and he likes it.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: I'm thinking about turning this into a really long fic, maybe like 20k or so - let me know if that would be well received! Reviews and the like are always awesome._**

* * *

_Chapter One_

_Oh, yeah. You'll do just fine._

He watches the man from the shadows. His suit is obviously expensive and well-tailored, since it does a decent job of making the fat idiot look presentable. The man is in his forties, with a red face and little piggy eyes. He walks around the city with a sense of ownership. Dean laughs at him under his breath. People never stop trying to own things. Well, he's no exception. Soon he's going to own that lovely money the man is carrying.

The man passes him. Correction: he attempts to pass him. Dean shoots a hand out from the alley, pulls the man inside and places a firm hand over his mouth, elbow of the same arm on his chest, pinning him to the wall, all in one smooth movement. This ain't his first rodeo, son.

"Hello," says Dean, his voice low and rough and quiet and threatening. The man stares up at him in wet, sloppy fear, blatantly terrified, unconsciously covering his genitals with his hands. Dean smiles at the man. _Monster. _He knows the type. Big shot lawyer or banker or something, stealing from the poor and the rich alike. In a way, Dean fancies himself as a sort of vigilante, scaring these fuckers straight. Of course, he needs a reward.

"I don't want to hurt you," he says, unsure on whether it's true, "but I have a gun and I'm sorry, tubby, but I could outrun _and _outfight you. So be a doll and give me all your money."

The man doesn't move, just shakes in the cold. Dean sighs and gets his gun out from where it's tucked into the small of his back, under the waistband of his jeans. "Come _on,_" he urges, growing bored. The man whimpers and immediately starts moving, extracting his wallet from his inside pocket. Dean puts away the gun to take it from him, stealing his watch in the process. One handed, he looks inside the wallet: around three hundred dollars. _Eh. Could do worse._

"Thanks. Now, I assume your ID is in here too." He waves the wallet in the man's face. "I'll be checking up on you." The man makes a noise again, a small moan under the sweat of Dean's hand. Dean wishes he'd worn gloves; he hates touching the guy skin-on-skin. _Disgusting._

He removes his hand and the man gasps for breath, doubling over unnecessarily. Dean kicks the guy out into the street and starts the other way, wiping his hands on his jeans, tucking the wallet into his back pocket. Three hundred dollars was hardly worth his effort, but the wallet's one of those brands, Ralph Lauren or Gucci or something. Bobby'll know where to get a few hundred more for it.

Dean wraps his arms around himself, his bravado and harsh demeanour wearing off fast. He just wants to get back home as soon as possible. If it were up to him, he'd never leave. But the fates are bitches, and they need money.

The sky is clear of all clouds. It's a beautiful spring day, and New York City is practically glowing with energy. Dean laughs a little to himself as he remembers the day they'd moved here. Poor and desperate, he'd known the only things he was good at that could get money quickly were hustling and threatening. They couldn't have stayed in Lawrence, of course, seeing as everyone there knew who he was, and he'd scammed half of them already anyway. So he'd pandered to the clichés, hoping that the ass crack of New York really did harbour jaunty criminals and Wall Street really was the chessboard of the greedy. It's all working out for him so far.

After about twenty minutes of walking, he reaches their apartment. He knocks three times in quick succession on the weak door, waits two seconds, and does it again. Ellen opens the door with a "hey" and he steps inside.

Dean takes off his jacket and kicks off his boots. Ellen stands over him, watching again. "Any change?" he mutters to her, as usual. She says no again.

Picking his way around the endless sleeping bags and medical books on the floor, Dean goes to the only bedroom. He stands outside the door, taking a few deep breaths, banishing the man he has to be for money and summoning the one he has to be for Sam.

It's always so dark in there. The bed takes up most of the room, and the chairs take up the rest. Dean takes his place on the one closest to the head.

"Sammy," he whispers, pressing his hand to his brother's forehead. "Wake up, Sammy."

Sam stirs, turning his head and opening his eyes. They remain glazed for a few moments before focusing on Dean. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," Dean replies.

"Get your hand off me, man. I swear, you're turning soft." There is a thin layer of humour in his voice, growing thinner each day.

Dean laughs as he takes his hand back. "Hey, you're the one in bed all day, princess."

"How you doing?" Sam asks, sitting up and reaching for the glass of water by the bed.

"Good," Dean replies, holding his hand under the glass as Sam drinks. "Three hundred, maybe a couple more." He takes the glass and puts it back on the side. "We're so close, Sammy."

"Dean–"

"Two more weeks. A month, tops."

Sam looks at him, pleading with his eyes. "We're not talking about this again, Sam," Dean tells him, finality in his tone.

Sam ignores it. "I don't want you doing this for me. It's not right. It's not _fair._"

"Yeah, well, this whole _thing _is goddamn unfair, if you hadn't noticed," Dean shoots back, glaring slightly. He stands up and sorts out Sam's sheets, just for something to do. Sam is silent, thinking of an argument that he hasn't used twenty times already. They have this conversation damn near every day. But there's one point he's been hesitant to make. Seeing as he started coughing up blood yesterday, he figures it's now or never.

"Dad would have hated it," he says quietly, looking up into Dean's face.

Dean freezes, hands in the sheets. He stands up straight and turns to Sam. His face is stony, expressionless, but his eyes are screaming. Sam swallows thickly, feeling it rake down his throat to the pit of his stomach.

"Don't."

It's one word, but it ends all conversation. Dean continues clearing Sam up. Sam stays quiet until Dean leaves a few minutes later, then coughs up everything he was holding in for his brother's sake.

* * *

Later that night, when everyone is asleep, Dean lies in his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling, arms behind his head. Recently he's been having a sort of identity crisis. It's never been a secret that he's a tad aggressive, but it worries him how much he seems to enjoy his "work". It's almost like he needs it, if only to release his stress and fear and anger.

He glances at the clock. 1:45a.m. No, not here, he can't think properly here.

Slowly he climbs out of his sleeping bag, careful to make as little noise as possible. Ellen, Jo, and Benny are asleep on the floor, with Jo's snores practically sending shockwaves through the entire apartment. Dean picks his jacket up from off the hook and pulls on his shoes. He grabs a six-pack from the fridge, pockets his keys, and shuts the door behind him as he leaves.

When they first came to the city, Dean hated it. He hated being away from home and everything he knew. He hated the anonymity and missed the sense of unity that Lawrence had. The first night in their new home, he'd done what he's doing now: snuck out to the roof. It's the only thing that he truly likes about this freaking place. From the roof he can see the whole city, and sure, it's pretty as hell. He dragged an old lawn chair up here his second or third time. Give a man a few beers and a view like that and he can forget most of his problems for a couple moments.

Dean cracks open his first beer, throwing the cap into the street below. He's twenty stories up, so he shouldn't hear it hit the ground, but he does. _Must be imagining things. Crazy son of a bitch. _He stretches out his legs in front of him, propping them up on the foot of raised concrete that marks the roof's perimeter.

It would be a lie if he said he'd never thought about jumping off the goddamn thing. But he stays for Sam.

Of course, if Sam goes away there'd be nothing stopping him. Hell, there'd be something _encouraging_ him.

For now, he just drinks beer and breathes and looks at the stars.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

_No no no no don't come over please don't come over_

_Is she walking over? She's walking over oh GOD NO PLEASE_

"Castiel!"

_Shit_

"Hey, Anna," he greets as she approaches. Anna stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek. He receives it.

"Castiel," she says again, "how've you been?"

He sighs. They both know that it's been only two days since they last saw each other. "Good, thank you. Yourself?"

"Can't complain." She smiles. "God, I hate it here. Don't you?"

Castiel looks around the crowded room. They're at a fundraiser for some children's charity, but everyone knows that 'charity fundraiser' is rich people code for 'party'. He stands in the corner, holding a glass of champagne that he shouldn't have, seeing as he's only turning twenty-one next month. His parents, the cause of his being here, are off kissing some powdered ass somewhere upstairs. _It could be worse,_ he thinks. _I could be one of them._

"It's not so bad," he replies finally. He uses talking to Anna as an excuse to set his champagne down at the side. She swiftly picks it back up and drains the glass.

"My mom said I've got to stay until they call her up to make a speech or something," Anna continues, replacing the glass on the stone mantle, unaware that Castiel is trying his very hardest not to glare at her. "Should be in about fifteen minutes. After that, I'm out of here." Then she leans in close to him to whisper, "I heard Lucifer's back in town."

Castiel's eyes widen. "Lucifer? But he's–"

"In jail, I know, crazy, right?" She grins at the look on his face, speaking normally but still as close. "You want to come?"

Oh, no. Castiel knows full well how bad he is at talking his way out of situations like this. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I... I've got to stay for the whole thing." He feels a light blush creep up his neck.

Anna pouts. "Afterwards? It only lasts until, like, ten."

"I have other duties to attend to, Anna." He scratches his neck and something seems to click in Anna's mind.

"Right," she says, nodding a little. "Right, sure. Too scared."

Castiel keeps his tone quiet, even though the red-faced antics of some of the guests would drown out a volcano. "We can't all go running off all the time, Anna. It's childish."

"No, you're the child, Castiel," whispers Anna, her voice suddenly harsh. "There's a whole fucking world out there, idiot. I'm just trying to help you."

"I don't need your help," he spits back, looking down at her, trying not to look down at her. "I didn't ask for it." Anna fumes silently for a second, speechless, her face turning as red as her hair, then walks off. Castiel doesn't turn to watch her go.

A band is playing something by Mozart; he's too tired to figure out the specific piece. Since he lost his glass, his hands are uncomfortably empty, and he has nothing to prevent him from looking like an awkward man standing in the corner. He could go and find his brother Michael, but Cas figures he's probably in the thick of things, talking about the stock market or something. _Pass._

Being the youngest son of a millionaire has its advantages, seeing as he's standing in a mansion wearing a Prada suit on his break from Harvard. But he'd trade all that to be rid of the disadvantages: unbearable "fundraisers", fake friends, and enough pressure to turn him into fossil fuel. He's grateful, sure, but there's something about this world, this manmade Heaven, that's just so persistently not real.

He fiddles with his tie, trying to cover up how inconveniently blue it is. No one told _him_ it was black tie. He was pulled out of the study at 5p.m., someone thrust a suit into his hands, and he was forced into becoming presentable. Really he was perfectly happy sitting quietly at home.

But God has other plans; people keep approaching him. He's firmly oblivious to the reason, which mainly consists of his large blue eyes, full lips, unruly black hair and enticing innocence. Anna is the third woman he's had to bat away from him. One more and he may resort to using an actual bat. It's not like he doesn't _like _women... he assumes he just hasn't found the right one yet. Or his type isn't spoiled, snotty little daddy's girls who don't know that a credit card can be easily tracked.

No one's badgering him to get a girlfriend, thought. Probably because he regularly hires someone to stand next to him and look pretty and put her arm around his waist. To admit that he's a twenty year old virgin would be mortifying. No, he's keeping himself to himself, quite literally.

He'd lied; he doesn't need to stay here until it's over at ten. He can pretty much leave whenever he wants, seeing as he's already made an appearance and people have seen he's been here. Mostly his part is just to be there and confirm that it's true when his parents are boasting about how smart he is. But where would he go? Not with Anna, that's for sure. He's not an _idiot – _that much has already been told to everyone in the room. He considers catching a taxi home and doing some more reading. But...

But what? Why doesn't he want to do that anymore?

Running a hand through his hair, he sighs. He gets his phone out from his inside pocket and scrolls through the ten new messages to find the one from Gabriel. _'Hey cassie,' _it says, _'got some beer and some twins. You in?'_

Cas texts back, _'Can you come and pick me up? Leave the twins alone. – Castiel'_

He shifts a little on his feet, phone in his hand, until Gabriel replies, _'but they're lonelyyy.'_

'_They're __also fictional. Hurry up. – Castiel'_

'_fuckin hell cas. didnt pin you for a mean drunk. B there in 15.'_

'_I'm not drunk. And thank you. – Castiel'_

He sends a quick text to his father's Blackberry, telling him that he's leaving, before replacing his phone and collecting his trench coat from the rack at the front of the house. He slips unnoticed out of the unnecessarily large doors, heads down the steps and waits outside of the gates for his brother.

Ten minutes later, Gabriel shows up in his ridiculous red Ferrari, blaring Nicki Minaj. "Hola!" he calls to his brother, taking off his sunglasses. "You rang?"

"You're ridiculous," Cas tells him, trying to hold back a smile.

"At least I'm not a tax lawyer, little brother." He laughs and beckons Cas towards him. "C'mon." Cas moves around the car to sit in the passenger seat. "So," Gabriel says as he starts to drive off, "finally cracked? Realise what a bunch of dicks and bitches they all are? Dicks and bi... ditches?"

"No, that's not it," Cas interrupts before Gabriel can officially coin the phrase. "I just didn't want to be there. I can't explain it."

"I can. You're not like them. Hell, you're not even like _me_." He looks at Cas for a long time, too long for someone driving over the limit on the highway. "You're something else all right, little bro."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" says Cas, letting the humour seep into his voice.

"Hell no! If you're not like me, you're falling below the perfection line." He reaches forwards and turns up the radio, singing violently along to _Starships._

Castiel laughs, leans back in his seat and looks out. It's dark but lights are on all over the city, giving it a makeshift glow. He decides he needs to venture out at night more often. Everything is that little bit more exhilarating: the air that bit sharper as it whips his hair flat to his scalp, the music that bit more enjoyable as it echoes off empty buildings, the night that bit more mysterious because God, anything could happen, he doesn't even know where they're _going_.

"Gabe!" he shouts. "Where are we going?!"

"I dunno!" Gabriel yells back, grinning.

Cas rests his head back, looks up at the stars, and thinks, _yes, that was a good answer._

* * *

Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets and mutters _goddamn weather fucking holy shit it's so fucking damn it _under his breath. In his palm he can feel the clammy paper of the $2000 he got off a tax lawyer. He flicks through it with his fingers and thumbs and smiles through his cursing.

_Just $5000 more._

He steps in a puddle, but he's in too good of a mood to care. All it does is speed up his constant stream of swear words. The puddle gets off easy.

Shaking his foot a little as he goes, he climbs the stairs to his apartment two at a time, whistling AC/DC's _Thunderstruck _as loud as possible. He nonchalantly wipes his feet on the carpet outside the door of their bitchy neighbour Ruby, and knocks on the door of number 67.

Ellen opens it immediately. "We have a problem."

She steps back to allow Dean in and slams the door closed for speed. Dean looks up as he takes off his jacket – Jo is glaring at Benny, who has his hands up in protest (and, seemingly, defence). Ellen appears to be the mediator.

"What's going on?" asks Dean, approaching them cautiously.

"All the money's gone!" Jo yells, whipping her head around to stare at Dean with rabid eyes.

Dean stops breathing. "What?"

"All of it! GONE! Just... disappeared! No signs of forced entry, nothing else taken!" She points a finger at Benny while still looking at Dean. "It was him, I know it was."

Still dizzy from the shock, Dean shakes his head a little, raising his hands to cover his face. "No, the... all of it?!"

"Yes goddamn all of it! He needs all of it to fuel his _drug _problem."

"Jo, _Dean_," Benny says, pleading, "I've told you, I don't do that kinda thing anymore, not in a long time."

Jo turns to him again, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then why are your eyes all red, huh?"

"I've just been drinkin', nothin' illegal. Nothin' worth that kinda money."

"I don't smell anything on you!" cries Jo, throwing her arms up in his general direction.

"Well it was vodka, wasn't it?" He looks at Dean. "Dean, you know that's my favourite drink. You know it."

Dean tries to think through the cotton filter of loss that's been shoved into his skull. "I don't... yeah, that's right."

"Bullshit!" Jo yells. "No one's this fucking logical when they're pissed out of their damn mind!"

"Joanna Beth –" Ellen starts, but Jo cuts her off by storming out of the apartment. Ellen stares after her, but doesn't move.

Benny holds his hands out to Dean. His face is so desperate, Dean almost reaches out to him, too. "Dean, please. I wouldn't do somethin' like this. Sam's like a brother to me. I want that treatment just as much as you."

They both know that's a lie. Not even Sam wants it as much as Dean wants it.

"When was it taken?" Dean asks Ellen, trying to stay logical.

"We don't really know. Sometime last night, most likely." Ellen takes a few steps towards him and puts her hand on his shoulder. "We haven't told Sam yet. We thought..." Her eyes finished the sentence. _Yeah, that and you didn't want to, _Dean thinks.

"Right, yeah," says Dean, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds. "I'll... just. Oh, God." His hands go back to his face, inadvertently knocking Ellen's hand off his shoulder. He presses down on his eyes so he doesn't cry. _Come on, Winchester, you can fix this. You can fix this if you just think._

But all he can think about is Sam, asleep in the next room, the life invisibly draining out of him.

He hears some coughs from the bedroom. Heavy ones. He opens the door and finds Sam, hunched over in the bed, covering his mouth with a tissue.

_Okay, maybe not invisibly._

"Sam!" Dean crosses the room to stand next to his brother, and places a reassuring hand on his back. "Damnit, Sammy."

Then Sam stops coughing. Then Sam sits up. Then Dean can see that the tissue is covered in blood.

Sam realises his mistake immediately and balls the damn thing up, hiding it in the palm of his large hand, but Dean's seen it, it's like his legs have been swept from under him, he can't breathe, it's, _Sam, fucking hell no oh Sammy the fucking money fucking son of a shit no it's_

_It's bad it's getting worse._

_No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no_

And through all the thoughts throwing themselves around in his head, only one sticks: _It's my job to fix this._

Sam is still looking up at him with those goddamn puppy eyes and saying _Dean Dean Dean _over and over and shaking his arm but it's so weak that Dean doesn't even notice that he's doing it until he looks down and sees it.

He's not just gonna sit here and watch his little brother die. Protecting him is who he is. It's _all _he is. He may as well change his name to Mess-With-Sam-And-I'll-Rip-Out-Your-Lungs Winchester. At least that way people would get the message faster and not try in the first place.

Dean smiles for Sam. "It's okay. Sammy, it's okay."

Tears well in Sam's eyes and he blinks hard. "Dean, I..."

But what the hell can he say?


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N: School starts again tomorrow, but I've always been one to avoid work, so I'll try my hardest to keep the updates regular :)_**

* * *

_Chapter Three_

He's on the roof again. Of _course _he's on the roof again.

Sam shakes his head. What is it with Dean and that frickin' roof? What does he do up there? Is it that _bad _that – _oh wait, no actually don't think about that. Nice, Sam. That's normal._

He laughs, or does his equivalent of a laugh, consisting of a crappy smile and a slight shake of his shoulders. Everything _hurts. _But all he wants to do is help Dean. The main reason he doesn't want to die is because he doesn't want Dean to have to deal with the loss. He doesn't want Dean to be that sad and on his own. Yeah, sure, he's got Ellen and Jo and Benny and Bobby and plenty of people who owe him favours, but Dean's never let anyone as close to him as he's let Sam. Sam doubts he ever will again.

The clock on the floor says it's 2:15a.m., but time doesn't really mean the same thing as it used to, seeing as he sleeps eighteen hours a day. Sam sniffs his armpit. He pulls on a couple more layers and two pairs of socks.

_Okay, now the tricky part._

He grabs the window ledge and pulls. Nothing happens.

He pulls harder. Nothing happens.

Well, _pain _happens. But nothing productive happens.

Sam closes his eyes and imagines Dean up there, on his own, thinking and drinking, always thinking and drinking too much.

He decides to crawl.

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean shuts the door of the apartment silently, kicking off his boots. He turns around to go back to bed and –

"Jesus fucking – _SAM?"_

Sam is laid out on the floor in front of him, desperately trying to claw his way towards the door. His face is pale and he's sweating through three layers and he's in obvious pain but, damnit, he's still trying.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean puts his hands under Sam's arms and practically drags him so he's leaning against the closest wall. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to... come see you..." Sam pants, slicking his hair back from his face with a clumsy hand. "Talk to you."

"You were gonna come to the _roof. _Up _three flights of stairs_."

"There's an... elevator."

"It's out of order."

"How was I supposed to know that?" Sam coughs into his hand, wiping whatever comes out on the thigh of his sweatpants. "Dean, I need... need to talk to you."

"No, nuh-uh, no way." Dean stands up straight. "We're not having the whole '_if I don't make it_' talk. Not now, not ever. You're gonna be just fine. We can cure this son of a bitch if we just get the money."

Sam looks up at Dean, his arms hanging limp by his sides, a bit of blood on his chin that he doesn't have the energy to wipe off. In that moment, Dean knows that Sam has given up. Officially Given Up.

"It's an experimental treatment. There's only a chance –"

Dean squats down, grabs Sam around the waist, and hauls him up over his shoulder. He'd thought Sam would be heavier, but goddamnit, he's not been keeping down a lot of food lately.

"Dean!" yells Sam. "Put me down! Are you crazy?"

"Shut _up, _you'll wake the others." He glances over to check they're still asleep.

"Dean are you crazy put me down put me down right now do you want me to puke on you because I freakin' will you jerk you JERK –"

"Stop complaining, would you?" whispers Dean as tiptoes towards the door. "Take your punishment like a good little bitch."

"DEAN."

Sam keeps up his never-ending stream of abuse as Dean carries him, very slowly, up the stairs to the roof. When he finally kicks open the door, the wind hits him so hard he stumbles back a few steps, causing Sam to shriek like a girl.

"Hey Samantha, want a tutu to go with that beautiful hair?" Dean chuckles and Sam manages to hit him on the back of the head and make it hurt a little.

Dean staggers over to the lawn chair and carefully drops Sam into it. He stretches, groaning. "Jesus, Gigantor, you should lay off the burgers."

"Shut up," Sam breathes. Dean sits down on the concrete next to him, arm around the back of the chair. They're both acting like it's dumb, looking at the stars, but they both secretly like it.

"Hey Sam, I see a shooting star!" Dean points at the sky.

"Where? I don't see it."

"It's gone. There it is! It's gone again. No, there – oh. Forget it, it's a plane."

Sam laughs. "Dumbass."

Then silence interrupts them.

It's so cold that Dean's breath is visible. Sam's isn't quite powerful enough.

Dean thinks about how the damn stars are crossed and faulty and stupid, why did his little brother have to get sick?

Sam thinks about how vast space is and how insignificant he is but how from his perspective, this moment is all there is in the world right now, and that's okay.

Dean thinks about what he's gonna do, he needs a plan, and he almost turns to the sky for help, before remembering he's an atheist, he became one after his parents both fucking died, but it's just an instinct to believe in something, and if he can't turn to Sam, who does he turn to?

Sam thinks about where you go when you die and whether it's better or worse, whether there's actually a Heaven or a Hell or just a fourth dimension they shove everyone in, and he hopes there's something, because he wants his family to be whole again.

Dean thinks about how Sam's going to live.

Sam thinks about how he's going to die.

"I love you, Dean," Sam whispers, so quietly that Dean almost dismissed it as the wind.

"What?" blurts Dean in pure, unadulterated surprise.

Sam doesn't reply, just looks at the sky.

Dean grips Sam's shoulder tightly. All of the things he would normally say run through his head: _I need you, I'm gonna get you better, don't you'll be fine, shut up. _He tries to pick one of them to say, but none really fit. So he just sighs in defeat and returns the sentiment and Sam puts his hand on Dean's shoulder and they kind of half hug and it's awkward and cold and Sam smells bad and Dean is so tired but it's just. It's the best.

Leaning his head a little against Sam's chair, Dean closes his eyes briefly and makes a silent promise that he will do whatever is necessary to get the money. He's not gonna leave Sam, and he's sure as hell not gonna let Sam leave him.

* * *

_Oh God I'm drowning I'm_

_No wait I'm_

_What?_

Cas splutters and opens his eyes. He holds his hands over his face as Gabriel throws more water on him, chuckling. "Good morning, starshine!" he cackles with something close to glee.

"Stop – STOP!" Cas yells, rolling onto his front and covering his head with his arms.

"Are you up yet?" Gabriel sings.

"Of course! Are you _done _yet?"

"Yeah, fine." Cas hears a _clang_ as Gabriel drops his bucket. He winces and groans. _Fuck, my head. _He sits up, rubbing it.

"Oh, God," he moans, "did I drink?"

Gabriel laughs again. "Oh, boy, did you drink! You didn't want to, though, don't worry. I just slipped vodka in your Cokes until you were hammered enough to think it was water."

"You..." Cas drops his hands and stares up at Gabriel. "You _what?_"

"You're welcome. Now, we gotta get out of here. Owner shows up at ten and it's... ten." Even as he talks, keys are starting to rattle in the lock. "Shit. C'mon." He grabs Cas by his tie and pulls him out of the back door of the club.

Cas voices his feelings as they were jogging away from the building. "Gabriel, I can't believe you would do that to me! You know if I'd been caught, I would have been kicked out of Harvard?"

"Relax, baby!" He claps his hand on Castiel's shoulder, hard enough to make Cas stumble. Gabriel's stronger than he looks. "I wasn't gonna let you get caught. And believe me, you had a lot of fun last night."

Something about his tone made Cas frown. "What does that mean?"

"You know what it means." He winks.

"Did I..." Cas raises an eyebrow at his brother as they slow to a walk.

"I'm not one to watch kissing and tell –"

"For God's sake, Gabe, tell me."

"Okay, pretty boy, keep your trench on." He raises his hands in surrender. "Last thing I saw was you getting pretty handsy with some dude at the back, you know, _in the shadows. _Then those twins found me and I stopped watching the slash and did some slashing of my own." He winks again. "With my penis," he adds, just to clarify.

"Hold up." Cas stops walking. "A dude?"

"Yeah. Classic Abercrombie, you know – muscles everywhere."

Cas's eyes are impossibly wide; they seem to swallow his entire face. "I was kissing a man?"

"Duh doy."

"Why is this not coming as a shock to you?!"

Gabriel strokes his chin. "Well, we all kind of assumed you were gay, seeing as you kept bringing escorts to the 'charity fundraisers'," he says, making air quotes with his fingers.

"And you didn't tell me?" Cas shouts.

"Tell you what?"

"That I'm _gay_?"

"Well jeez, we sort of assumed you _knew _about it. The dick wants what the dick wants, and the dick tends to know what it wants."

Cas splutters, trying to find something to say, some proof against it, but – it does make sense. He's never been interested in girls, and he's been too uptight and busy to even _consider _the possibility of boys. But now that he is, he can see the appeal. Definitely. Wow yeah actually _no stop your brother is right there this is important._

He takes a deep breath and looks Gabriel in the eye. "Stop laughing," he orders.

"It's funny!" Gabriel exclaims, throwing up his arms. "We fully support you, it's fine! I'm hungry, there's a Taco Bell down the road."

Cas doesn't move.

"I _said_, there's a Taco Bell down the road."

"Gabe, I'm a little preoccupied realising my entire sexual orientation."

"Well _my _sexual orientation is tacos, so." He starts walking. Cas sighs and follows him.

* * *

"Oh my God," Gabriel moans, clutching his stomach. "Bitch poisoned my taco."

"I wouldn't blame her. You can't just go around telling people they should be on _Doctor Sexy M.D._ Sooner or later, you're going to get poisoned."

"It _burns_." He slides down the wall outside the restaurant, grasping at thin air as if seeing the light. "Cassie, there _is _a God! I see him! Get away, I'm not done yet! _I only did one of the twins!"_

Cas scoffs. Considering how drunk Gabriel had been, he's surprised he doesn't think the twins are quadruplets. "The pain is probably more to do with the fact you ate seven."

"Sis, have you never heard of YOLO?"

Cas hasn't, but he doubts he wants to know. "We have to get you home."

"_My _home, you mean." He looks up at Cas, visibly annoyed. "I moved out."

"I know, you don't have to keep reminding everyone."

Gabriel breaks eye contact to hunch over and moan some more. Cas sighs and pulls him upright. "I'm calling you a taxi."

"Ataxi? Is she new?"

"Stop being an assbutt."

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"Shut up, I'm on the phone." Cas holds the phone to his ear as Gabriel laughs and says _assbutt _under his breath repeatedly. He orders the taxi and sits down next to his brother, who's collapsed on the pavement, singing _assbutt assbutt assbutt_.

"Is there anything you, uh, need?" he asks hesitantly. People skills were never really his thing.

"Shit," Gabriel mumbles.

"Seems like it is, yeah," Cas tries to empathise.

"No, I need a shit," comes Gabriel's loud reply.

Luckily the taxi driver chooses that moment to appear, meaning Cas can bundle Gabriel into the backseat and apologise to the driver. "Call me when you get home," Cas says to Gabriel, who promptly flips him off and pukes in the cab. It drives away, and Castiel can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. He loves Gabriel, but he's... sure something.

Cas takes a look around him. He has, honest to God, no idea where he is. It's still in the city, judging by the pavements and the accents, but apart from that... no clue. He's not one to frequent Taco Bells.

It'd probably be a good idea to call a cab, but, checking his wallet, he realises he has no cash. _Damn guy I was kissing probably took it all, _he thinks sulkily, then realises with a drop to the stomach that that was his first kiss, and he can't even remember it. _Wow. Damn guy I was kissing really did take it all. _He laughs a little at his own joke as he crosses the street, trying not to think about how sad this makes him.

After a few minutes of walking and not-thinking, he comes across a Bank of America. Miraculously, he still has all his debit cards. He ducks into the store, rubbing his eyes and looking around.

The room is clean and blue and very busy, with ten people per cashier and a line of twenty behind the ATM. He sighs for what feels like the tenth time that day and sits down in one of the waiting chairs, happy to wait until it's all died down a little. He pulls out his phone and starts to answer his texts, chewing his lip as he comes up with new excuses not to hang out. He feels a lot less guilty rejecting girls now he knows that he's gay, and it's not just his high standards. It's taken a surprisingly short time for him to come to terms with his new label. Frankly, it's sort of a relief.

A woman sits down in the seat to the right of Cas and starts complaining about the service. Cas turns to reply, but sees that she's talking to her cat, not him. She gives him a hostile glare so he frowns and turns back to his phone, feeling damn sorry for the cat.

After about half an hour a man sits down to his left just after the woman gives up. Cas finished his messages and starts to play Temple Run. It's hilarious, really; no matter how much the little man tries to run, he can never escape, because he's trapped by his own self loathing, the need to steal things to feel of worth. When the man gives the statue back to the monkeys and says, "_I am my own man_", only then can he be free.

"Hey," says the man next to him. Cas pauses the game and turns to him and – sweet holy mother of what.

The man sitting next to him is just, to put it simply, beautiful. He has big green eyes, full lips, long eyelashes and bone structure that would make archaeologists drool. His green and purple plaid shirt sets off everything just right, giving him the appearance of some form of Adonis.

"Hey," says Cas. It comes out strangled and weak.

"I couldn't help but notice that you're whispering angrily to your game," the man says, amused. The corner of his mouth tilts up. Cas can only stare.

"Uh, yeah. It annoys me on a spiritual level." His voice is a full octave higher than usual.

The man laughs, sending shivers down his spine. "Monkeys sacred to you?"

"Something like that," Cas replies, unwillingly breaking into a goofy smile. He subtly wipes the sweat off his hand, then offers it to the man. "I'm Castiel. Castiel Novak."

"Dean." They shake hands. Dean's hand is warm and rough and firm he's smiling at him and Cas feels like an eighteen year old nun at a college frat party. Every nerve in his body is standing on end. A billion different possibilities run through his mind every second, and he'll go through those in vigorous detail later, but for now he has to not. Fuck. This. Up.

Cas puts his phone in his pocket and looks around the bank. "I've been here for about an hour."

"Jesus Christ. For a bank of _America _it sure does seem like some kind of dictatorship." Cas laughs, and it's a different sound to anything he's ever heard come out of his mouth before. He... he likes it. He likes _Dean._

"I don't mind too much," says Cas, angling his body so he's facing Dean. His heart skips a little when Dean does the same. "It's nice to, you know, sit for while."

Dean smirks. "Got a lot on your mind?"

"Understatement." He manages not to roll his eyes.

Dean raises his eyebrows and tilts his head forwards. This is a social cue. He's asking him to tell him about it.

"Nothing big, just family stuff. The usual. I had to go to this charity benefit last night, and all my parents do is drag me to mansions show me off all the time –" He looks at Dean, his face growing even redder. "Crap, that was really – I'm not trying to –"

"No, it's okay! Don't sweat it." Dean nods slightly, licking his lips. _Oh God oh God oh. _"No. You seem like a nice guy, so I'm gonna tell it to you straight." He shifts in his seat, leaning closer to Cas, so their foreheads are two inches apart. Dean doesn't break eye contact.

"What?" Cas breathes.

"Can you keep a secret?" teases Dean.

"Oh God yes."

Dean smirks again, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "I've been to ten banks already this morning, scanning the places for anyone worthwhile. But no one's stood out to me. Everyone's just been average, boring. Except... you." He winks on the last word. _Damnit Cas think unsexy thoughts._

Dean licks his lips again before he continues. "You are special. _You, _Castiel Novak, are the son of the great Dick Novak, meaning you're fucking loaded as the gun I've got with me."

_What?_

"Now, you're gonna come with me, or I'm gonna shoot you. Got that?" He grins, and it's no longer attractive. It more looks like he's baring his teeth to intimidate his prey.

Cas can only nod dumbly.

"Excellent," says Dean, and stands up. He hauls Cas up by the arm and leads him quickly out of the building.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Sorry this took so long. It's been a hell of a week. Also, sorry if there are any medical inaccuracies with the bit at the end (no spoilers lol) but I had to look it up on Wikipedia. Enjoy, and please review!**_

* * *

_Chapter Four_

Gabriel trundles off to his old room to fish his Three Musketeers bar out the back of the toilet tank. Only with his trusty steed by his side can he possibly do this.

It's awkward as Hell. Gabriel sits across from his father, whose legs are crossed too tight to be comfortable, hands folded in his lap.

"Gabriel," says Dick after recovering elegantly from the initial shock. "I must say, this is a surprise, son."

"Yeah, well. I gotta talk to you." Dick immediately straightens; to see Gabriel serious is like catching the Pope in a brothel.

"Shoot."

Gabriel decides just to come right out with it. Beating around the bush ain't gonna make it any prettier. "I think something's happened to Cas."

"Castiel?" Dick frowns. "Why?"

"I saw him just this morning, we were downtown together, then I left and... I haven't heard from the little guy since."

"How long ago was this?"

Gabriel checks his watch, stubbornly ignoring the huge grandfather clock to his left. It's 8p.m. "About nine hours."

"What was your last contact?" _Straight to business. He hasn't changed, _Gabriel thinks, wrinkling his nose and covering it up as a small sneeze.

"He sent me a text asking if I was okay at about half past eleven." He waits nervously as his father thinks it all over for a few moments. They haven't been in the same room together in seven months. Not since the argument of the century. Jesus, Gabriel was tempted to go into witness protection after that. His father was so angry he'd expected the entire wrath of NATO to rein down upon him. But the cold shoulder was punishment enough, and, in his opinion, reward enough.

Dick rubs his eyes with a finger and thumb and inhales deeply through his nose. "Okay," he says. "This is what we're going to do. You are going to go out and find Castiel and bring him back because it's your damn fault he's gone, you alcoholic moron." He takes his hand away from his face to look Gabriel straight in the eye, his voice remaining calm. "You are not going to breathe a word of this to anyone because if it gets out that my son is gone, and my other son's a failure, people won't want to give me their money. Are we clear?"

Gabriel grins, sitting on his shaking hands. "Crystal, padre."

* * *

"Knock, knock."

"Ellen, you know, it'd be just as easy to actually knock."

"Shut up," Ellen smiles as she lets herself into Sam's bedroom. He returns the smile weakly. It doesn't reach his eyes, but she knows he's trying his hardest to pretend like it does.

Ellen smoothes down her shirt with firm hands and sits down at the end of Sam's bed. She gives him the mother look, the _I need you to be an adult here _look, the look she gives Jo when wine goes missing. Sam raises his head a little instinctively in response.

"Sam... did Dean say anything to you that would suggest, I don't know, he was gonna _do _anything?"

Sam frowns, making a little knot between his eyebrows. "Ellen..."

"Nothing's wrong, just, did he?"

Sam thinks for a second. Ellen breathes through her mouth. "Well, I mean, he didn't say anything _specific_ about doing something, but all the money's gone, so it's likely that he... What's going on? Where is he?"

"He's gone, Sam."

His eyes widen. "What?" He tries to get out of bed but Ellen pushes him gently back down.

"Easy. We saw him yesterday morning. He said he was going out on a job, and not to wait up for him. Haven't seen him since." She looks at her watch: 10a.m. It's been a day.

Sam runs his hands through his hair. "Oh god, he's probably been shot or something, have you called 911?"

"We can't, Sam. What would we say? 'My brother went out mugging and he hasn't been back, maybe a crime gang is after him, please check the gutters'?"

Sam looks up at Ellen with those big brown eyes and intense vulnerability. "What do we do?"

Ellen stands, puts on her jacket, and says, "I find him."

* * *

Castiel opens his eyes and knows that he's blind. Then his head clears a little and he knows that he's blindfolded.

"Mfmnmfphfhphumf," he says.

"Sorry, what was that?" replies a smooth voice behind him. Castiel recognises that voice. It's the man from the bank. Hot anger rises in his throat and he bites down hard on the gag to keep from trying to yell out again.

Rough hands pick at something on the back of his head. "Might wanna close your eyes," mutters the man – Dean, he remembers – before the blindfold comes off and the bright sunlight causes Cas to cry out. He jerks a hand up, attempting to shield his eyes, but his wrist snags on something, giving him friction burn.

He squints as the light fades, allowing him to make out the scene in front of him: he's in a warehouse somewhere. And that's about it. He mentally slow-claps his captor for his originality.

Dean steps into his line of sight and Cas no longer gets the fuzzy warm-and-cuddly butterflies in his stomach. At least Dean has the common sense to tie Cas to a chair seeing as he has the barely controllable urge to beat the shit out of him.

The rage in his eyes must be pretty intense; Dean steps back and raises his hands. "Hey," he chuckles, "relax, I'm not gonna hurt you." His voice has an edge of fear and uncertainty. Cas senses he hasn't done anything like this before.

"I'm Dean." He holds out his hand. Cas glares up at him. Dean takes back his hand, laughing. "See? We can have a good time."

"Whusmufnaom," says Cas.

"Okay, dude, I have no idea what you just said, so I'm gonna go ahead and answer all the typical kidnap questions."

Cas closes his eyes at the word _kidnap. _To have Dean say it so bluntly really brings the point home that he's a hostage. No, screw that. He's a prisoner.

"One," says Dean, counting on his fingers. "'Where am I?' Well, I'm not gonna tell you _that_. 'Oh, but Dean, why not?'" He mimics Cas's deep, gravelly voice. "Well, Castiel, if you were to escape, then you'd know where you were, and therefore, where _I _was. Ipso facto, bad idea."

Cas supposes Dean's had a lot of time to think this through, seeing as Cas was apparently out cold for an entire day.

"Two," Dean continues, "'why are you doing this to me?' You're rich. 'But why are you doing this at all?' None of your damn business. Three, 'what do you want from me?' Easy. Money." Cas opens his eyes to look at Dean. He's looking out of the window, his back to Cas. His shoulders are slumped slightly forwards – terrible posture.

"Four." Dean spins around as if he'd known he was being watched. He locks eyes with Cas and doesn't look away. "'Who are you?' Oh, don't mind me. I'm just a petty criminal." He grins, going for the easygoing look, but coming across as uncomfortable and young. "Did I miss anything?"

"Yurnfnashbludgh," replies Cas.

"Oh, yeah. Of course. 'Why am I gagged?' So you can't scream. Though I doubt it'd do you any good. We're in the middle of nowhere, and what, do you _gargle _gravel?" He claps Cas on the shoulder before walking past him to somewhere out of Cas's sight.

"So here's my plan, Mr Novak," comes Dean's voice from behind him. "I'm gonna let you stew for a few days, get your mommy and daddy all riled up, then make an anonymous call, asking for five million dollars. _Five million_, you think, _that's practically nothing to them_! So as long as pretty Cassie gets returned with her long blonde hair pristine, everybody's fine and dandy."

Cas rolls his eyes at the crappy insult, but he knows Dean's right; five million is nothing. His father's company is worth billions.

Dean moves around behind him, fiddling with something, still talking. Cas senses that keeping busy steadies his nerves. "Now, an anonymous phone call ain't an easy thing to pull off. But I can swing it." He stops moving, supposedly deep in thought. "I'm not just a pretty face and a prize bang, you know. I can make shit."

He walks over to Cas and crouches in front of him. "Hell, I can brag to you, you can't reply." He holds up something so Cas can see it. "Look. This is my old Walkman. As soon as these things became outdated, I figured it could be used for something more... useful. Look." He turns it on and it begins to emit a low hum. Dean swipes it slowly down Cas's body. Once it reaches his waist, the hum turns into a high-pitched shriek.

Dean turns the thing off and holds it up to Cas again. "It's a metal detector! Neat, huh?" He places it on Cas's lap, moving the trenchcoat aside to see what set the device off. "Oh, it's your belt. We'll leave that on, shall we?" He winks at Cas. "Or not."

Cas can feel himself beginning to blush, and Dean can see it, too. He laughs under his breath and picks up the busted-up Walkman, moving back to whatever's behind Cas.

"You gotta earn your rights, man," Dean calls to him. "If we get along, I'll take your gag off. We're gonna be here a little while, might get lonely. But if you act like a bitch," and Cas can practically hear him brandish something in his direction, "then you can just sit there. Capisce?"

Cas nods slightly. _Yeah, I capisce._

Suddenly music begins blaring from behind him. Cas listens for a few moments, seeing if he recognises the heavy rock music. He doesn't; he's not really a rock fan.

"I'm guessing you're not a rock fan," laughs Dean, suddenly beside him. Cas jumps a little and turns to him. "Poor little uptown girl. It's AC/DC. Gotta start with the basics." He cracks open his beer, drinking for a few seconds before the chorus hits. "_I got guns for hire_," he sings loudly, throwing his head back. "_Shoot you with desire!_"

Sighing behind the gag, Cas closes his eyes again. _Of all the criminals in the world, I had to be stuck with one who thinks he can sing._ And then the fear he's been holding back starts to seep in, and his hands clench around the rope, his legs brace against the floor, his breathing speeds up. _No no no don't hyperventilate not now no you won't be able to breathe there's a thing in your mouth you can't no –_

It's too late. He's having a panic attack.

His body goes numb as his breathing gets even faster. He begins to shake. Before he loses his power of speech he tries to call out to his captor, but it comes out as a choke of pain, and then his entire chest catches fire and he can only hunch over and try to focus on reality.

Dean puts down the phone and turns to Castiel when he hears the noise. "Hey, you okay, buddy?" he calls, knowing that the answer is 'no'. He waits a few seconds, then notices that the guy's shaking.

"Shit," he mutters, dropping what he's holding and running to Castiel. He kneels down in front of him. Cas looks up with terrified eyes before squeezing them shut again. "Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," he says as he undoes the gag. "Hey? Castiel?"

He's seen these symptoms before, in himself. When Sam was first diagnosed, Dean used to get panic attacks every day. But someone was always there, someone he could trust.

Castiel looks like he's gonna throw up. _Think goddamnit, what did Sammy do?_

Carefully, so carefully, he places one of his hands on Castiel's back, his other on his knee. "Castiel," he begins, nervous. "It's alright. I'm not gonna hurt you. I don't _want _to hurt you. I just really need the money, okay? I panicked. This kinda stuff is all I can do." It's not working. He keeps talking. "I'm gonna get you back safe, okay? I promise, Cas. It's gonna be okay. It'll be okay, man. I won't put the gag back on. It's gonna be okay. I'm not gonna leave you."

He doesn't know where that last bit came from – bit of a surprise, really – but it seems to do the trick. Castiel's breathing slows down and he stops shaking. After a few minutes of Dean keeping his hand steady on his back, Cas looks up.

"Okay?" Dean says, self-conscious.

Cas clears his throat before talking. "Yes," he says, voice hoarser than usual, and equally embarrassed. "Thank you."

"You want some water or something...?"

"That would be nice."

Dean practically runs away from him. He always feels weird after pansy shit like that. But he needs the kid in fine health if he's gonna get a good deal for him.

_Sure Dean, _says a sarcastic voice in the back of his mind that always reminds him of Sam. _That's the reason._


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: I'm so sorry this has taken so long. Weekly updates from here on out. I had writer's block and I wanted to make sure it was good enough. Reviews and the like are always awesome!_**

* * *

_Chapter Five_

Cas wakes up to Dean's face in front of him. The light coming through the open door makes one side of Dean's face glow and his eyes sparkle. If he weren't being held hostage by this man – let's just say his pants would be a little tighter.

"Hi there," Dean greets as he notices Cas's eyes flutter. "My name's Dean. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women." He shifts slightly in his seat. "And I'm not gonna kill you."

He leans back, opening his arms. "You go."

"What?" Cas tries to ignore his full bladder and pounding head.

"Tell me about yourself. We're gonna be stuck in this hole for a couple days, may as well have some entertainment."

Cas has never had many friends, seeing as he spent most of his time in his room, and hates the morals of the people surrounding him. But he's not so desperate and lonely as to become besties with a kidnapper. _His _kidnapper.

"Bite me," he replies, a phrase he learned from overhearing his sisters watching soap operas.

Dean sighs. "I'm trying to be civil here, man. I don't wanna be here either, you know."

"Couldn't you just rob a bank?" Cas throws his hands up in the air slightly, seeing as they're now tied more loosely in his lap instead of tightly behind him after the previous day.

"Are you kidding?" Dean cocks one eyebrow, a move he usually reserves for picking up women and dealing with Sam when he's talking back too much. "I don't have that kind of expertise. You gotta know computers and shit. I mean, I can guess passwords pretty well, but I'd need some expert help to reroute cameras, and I don't think those kind of people have ads on Craigslist, do you?"

Cas doesn't reply, simply sighs with disgust and looks at Dean's feet. He's still terrified, of course, but Dean knows he can't put the gag back on without triggering a panic attack so Cas figures he doesn't really need to be polite.

"Dude, come on. All I know is your name and your dad." Dean braces his hands on his thighs like he's going to stand.

Cas looks up to meet Dean's eye. "Yeah. That's all everyone knows."

"What do you mean?" Dean's eyebrows knit together, and Cas feels like laughing at the fact that a criminal could look so concerned, so genuine. _Give this guy an Oscar. Or at least let him get away with stealing one._

"It's not important." He lowers his head a little, glaring softly up at Dean. "Don't you have some business to attend to?" Dean simply looks confused, so Cas continues, "Shouldn't you be calling my family? Not really much point in this if they don't know I'm in danger."

"Ah. Right." Dean shakes his head slightly, as if scolding himself. "Yeah. I guess it's been two days, that's about enough." He doesn't move, though. Simply keeps Cas's gaze.

"What?" asks Cas after a few moments.

"I'm not a bad guy," Dean tells him, scarily sincere.

"Sure," says Cas, voice dripping with sarcasm, hiding the fact that he already knew that.

Dean runs a hand through his short hair, which looks blonde in the sunlight. He mutters something under his breath, and from the stress he puts into his voice, Cas guesses he was cursing. The wood chair makes a scrape against the concrete floor as Dean stands and moves back to the space behind Cas.

No longer bound to the chair, Cas stands, turning round his chair to face Dean. He sits back down quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself, only wanting to watch.

He sees a long workbench with all kinds of crap on it, mostly electronic, but with a few car parts spattered here and there. A few t-shirts are thrown over a chair in the corner, along with a pair of loose boxers; Dean's wardrobe, he assumes. There's a radio on the bench, too, which seems to be the main attraction. It's in a much better condition than the entire rest of the building.

Dean picks up a disassembled phone and a post-it note containing the number, obtained from Castiel's cell phone, that Dick Novak gave to his son in case of an emergency. Presuming it's a direct line to the man himself, Dean dials the number and holds the phone to his ear.

As it rings, he looks over at Cas, who's facing him now. His breath catches when he sees those bright blues, staring at him, always staring, the little creep. But Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't a bit fond of the guy. He's very smart looking, yet a little rugged, which is cute, if you liked that kind of thing. Dean's eyes stray into the danger zone as he gives Cas the up-and-down, taking in the trenchcoat and battered suit, the scuffed dress shoes and post-coital hair. If he had a type for guys, well, jackpot. But he's straight as the pole up Cas's ass.

"You've reached the personal cell phone of Dick Novak. If this is an emergency, call 911, jackass. Otherwise, leave a message."

Dean scoffs, holding the phone away from him and turning to Cas. "Voicemail," he smirks. Cas opens his mouth in shock, closes it quickly. He closes his eyes and lowers his head. _Damn, this kid is guarded. Thought that was my thing._

"Hey, yes," says Dean into the phone. "Hi there. Love your work. I have your son. This was fun, I'll call you." He flips the phone shut and places it carefully back on the bench.

"Nice guy. Bit quiet," he throws in Cas's direction, laughing slightly to himself. He turns to Cas, who's still sulking. Poor bastard. Dean knows a thing or two about absent fathers, and it's not a good feeling. In fact, it fucking sucks.

He grabs a couple beers from the mini-fridge under the bench and pops them open, nudging Cas's shoulder with one. "Hey. Drink up."

Cas opens his eyes and glances at the beer, held aloft in front of him. "No thank you."

"Listen, there are two ways to deal with daddy issues. One, become a sex worker. Two, drink. What's it gonna be?"

Narrowing his eyes and making an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, Cas takes the beer. He sips at it nervously, wincing at the bitter taste. "I don't see why people like this so much," he says to Dean, eyeing the beverage in his hand suspiciously. "It's not particularly appetising."

"Yeah, well, it's the best you're gonna get. My money doesn't really go towards luxuries these days." Dean leans against the wall to Cas's right, shoving one hand in his pocket.

Cas rests the beer in his lap. "What do you mean?"

"I... well, money's pretty hard to come by, I'm not gonna waste it on twenty dollar beer." He goes for a casual grin, but it comes up short, more like a grimace. He knows that if this is gonna work, he needs to keep himself distant, not get emotionally attached to the little guy.

He can see it in Cas's eyes, the doubt, the pity. So much damn pity is thrown at him these days, he's sick of it. He's not a fucking sob story. He's not Gollum, he's Frodo. He's not beaten, he's still fighting.

To his credit, Cas drops it, saying, "Sure, that makes sense," before choking down some more beer. They drink in silence for a few moments before Cas interrupts with, "I need to use the bathroom."

Dean sighs. "Fuck, fine. I guess this was gonna happen eventually." Finishing off his beer in a few quick gulps, he sets it on the side and helps Cas stand up – unnecessary, but hell, it makes him feel better about doing this to the guy.

"I guess while you're in the bathroom, may as well take a shower. It's been a couple days, and man, you weren't too fresh to begin with." He places his hand firmly on Cas's shoulder and steers him through the halls towards the bathroom. Cas makes an effort to remember the way in case of... well, it comforts him to know a little more about the layout is all.

"So what, you gonna sponge bath me?" he mutters, half to himself, but Dean hears and laughs a little under his breath.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I figure if I untie you and stand by the door, you won't run away. Of course, I have a gun, and I could always shoot you in the leg or something, so there's that too."

Cas nods. "Fair argument." He's shoved inside a room, spots a toilet, a sink and a shower, and assumes they've arrived.

"Go nuts," Dean tells him, locking the door from the inside and leaning against it.

"Are you not going to wait outside?" Cas asks, clenching his fists in a desperate attempt to maintain eye contact.

"There's a window, I'm not an idiot." He points to it where it stands above the toilet. "C'mon. We have all day, but I don't wanna spend it watching you piss."

"I'm not entirely comfortable –"

"Feel free to file a sexual harassment complaint to your supervisor. Except you're not free. And I'm your supervisor." Dean points again, towards the toilet. "Make," he says, condescending, with a smile to match.

Cas throws all his hatred towards Dean in a look, then turns his back towards him, maintaining what little privacy he has. God, he may as well be in prison, surrounded by pimps, he feels so exposed. His life is all _about _privacy, secrecy, the hidden layer of society. Now he's pissing in front of a criminal. The Lord works in mysterious – and annoying – ways.

At least there's a shower curtain, albeit a flimsy one, not completely opaque. He washes his hands, earning a snort from his captor at the unnecessary hygiene precaution, then steps towards the shower, checking it out.

The whole bathroom is in pretty good condition and smells like it's been cleaned recently. _Most likely Dean's work. Should I be touched? _The shower is one of those shower-bath combos, and seems to work like his one at home. He nods a little to himself and turns to Dean.

"Could you – I don't know..." He makes an ambiguous gesture in the air with his hands, raising his eyebrows.

"You want me to shield my eyes?" Dean asks.

"Yes."

"Fine. Man, you must be fun at parties." He makes a show of placing his right hand over his eyes. "Okay, strip for me."

Cas removes his trenchcoat, hanging it up on one of the nails sticking out of the wall. He supposes it's a bit weird he's kept it on all this time, but it acts as a kind of tie to home, and himself; an extra layer is an extra something between him and this harsh reality. He takes off his suit jacket, his tie, and everything else in a meticulous order, placing them carefully in prime places around the room. When he's down to his boxers only, he glances towards Dean, to make sure his eyes are still covered. Suspicions eradicated, he removes his underwear, steps into the shower and closes the curtain.

Looking through it, he can barely make out anything except vague shapes and shades. As for Dean, all that's visible of him is a long, blurry oval. And even _that _looks pissed off.

He figures he's safely concealed, so says loudly, "Okay. I'm in." He turns on the shower, stepping back quickly to avoid the initially cold water that blares out. He looks around himself for some soap, finding a relatively new bar resting on the rim of the tub. He picks it up and tries not to think about where it's been on Dean's body, because those aren't thoughts he should be having, or anybody should be having, about their kidnapper, because he hates what Dean's done to him, he hates the situation Dean's put him in, he does, but he can't quite find it in himself to hate Dean.

_I'm going to Hell, _he thinks, before banishing all thoughts under the beautifully hot water. A few minutes later, when he's as clean as the two dollar bar of soap is going to get him, he turns the water off, running his hands through his hair, slicking it lightly back from his face.

"Do you have a towel?" he calls to Dean. Before he knows it, the curtain is ripped back, making him cry out and jump back, almost slipping.

"What are you doing?" he practically yells, snatching the towel Dean is holding out, before realising that Dean's other hand is still firmly over his eyes.

"Someone's arrogant. Just so you know, I don't swing that way. Now hurry up and get dressed, it's lunchtime."

* * *

Sam has never felt as infuriatingly fucking useless as he does lying in bed with his brother missing. He knows in the pit of his stomach that there's nothing he could possibly do, seeing as he's drenched in sweat from not moving in three days. But Goddamnit Dean's always been there to firelift him to the roof, pull him out of burning buildings, and slap him when he's being a little bitch; when has Sam been there for Dean?

_No point whining about it. Not gonna change the fact that you can't stand up without passing out or puking. With my luck, it'd be both at once, _he thinks, slowly throwing an arm over his forehead. Everything he does is so freaking slow these days, he can't stand it. At least his mind is still sharp. Not that it does him much use seeing as he's stuck in fucking bed oh my _God this is Hell._

He hears keys in the door and his eyes fly open. He begins the three minute dance of pillows and limbs that enables him to sit up. Then he waits patiently for a visitor.

There's a soft knock on the door, and Jo enters before Sam has a chance to let her. "Hey, Sam," she says, voice vibrant and emotionally ruthless as ever. Sam appreciates that; she won't treat him any differently just because he's dying. He and Dean have been getting pity their entire lives, but never from those who care about them. Though, there aren't many people who fit that category anymore.

"Hi, Jo, how are you?" Sam moves his legs slightly to let Jo sit down beside him.

"Feelin' a little ill, actually. Might take the day off." She places a hand over her forehead. "Jesus, I'm burning up. Would you feel that?"

Sam's hand replaces hers. It's cool to his touch. "Wow, never thought I'd call you hot, Jo..."

"Screw you," she laughs as he drops his hand. "You the same?"

"Pretty much." He nods a couple of times. "Yeah. Any news on Dean?"

"If there was, d'you think I'd waste your time with five star entertainment before I told you?"

"Ha ha," he says without enthusiasm. "What about Benny?"

She sighs, and it's loaded with world-weariness, too much for someone her age. "Ugh. Right. Yeah, he came back last night. Sober, at least. He brought a thousand dollars as penance or some shit. It was legit, not from the stolen stash."

"How do you know?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Promise not to tell?" He nods. "I put a brush of linseed oil on all the bills we had. Shine 'em with a UV light, you can see the oil clear as day. His passed."

Sam smiles. "Nice job."

"Shut up. So Benny said he's gonna help us make back the money, so I kinda _had _to not yell at him some more." Jo looks at her hands, which pull at the hem of her sweater. "Doesn't mean I fucking like it."

Sam resists the urge to apologise.

The front door opens again and Jo turns instinctively to the noise. "Jo? Benny?" Ellen calls as she closes the door.

"In here!" Jo shouts to her mom.

Ellen's head peeks around the door to Sam's room. "Everyone decent?"

"Depends what you mean. I'm not wearing pants," Sam quips.

"What a charmer." Ellen opens the door fully to reveal Bobby standing behind her.

"Hey, Bobby," says Sam, thinking maybe he should have had that bath this morning after all.

"Yeah, yeah. We got news." Bobby steps past Ellen to throw something onto Sam's lap. He picks it up. "What is this?" Sam asks.

"Read it out loud," Ellen says, and there's something in her voice, something that takes Sam back to that doctor's appointment all those months ago. He picks up the piece of paper, opens it, and reads.

"'Sam. I'm sorry. I'm okay. Working a big job. Won't be home for a few days. It's gonna be okay, I've got a plan,'" he reads. He looks up at Ellen and Bobby, eyes big, the little knot between his eyebrows highlighted by shadows. "Where did you find this?"

"In the garage," Bobby replies. "Keep reading." Sam holds their eye contact for a few more seconds before dropping his gaze once more to the letter. The handwriting is messy, but careful. The pen has been pushed hard into the paper. This was a definitive decision, but not one he was happy about.

"'Stay out of trouble. If you die while I'm gone I'm gonna kill you. Dean.' What's he talking about? What job? Where is he?" No one responds. He notices another sentence, bunched up at the bottom. It takes a minute of staring and squinting to decode it before he reads, "'P.S., if you hear anything, ignore it. See you soon, bitch.'"

"What the Hell, what's he doing?" Jo curses, standing up to grab her cell from her bag. She types something and holds it to her ear.

"We tried all of his numbers," Bobby tells her impatiently. "None even ring."

"Voicemail," Jo says, hanging up. "What the fuck?"

"Is this all he's left?" asks Sam, conscious that he's on a lower level than all the others, forced to look up at them like a freakin' kid. _Mommy, mommy, give me answers! I'll clean my room!_

"Yeah. The letter and whatever last testimony he gave you are our only clues." Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose. "And I was gonna take this weekend off."

"So he's not missing, he's just on a job." Sam nods to himself. "That's a relief. But we still don't know where he is or when he'll be back. He could be in danger for all we know."

"I doubt that," says Ellen, "it's not like Dean to take something on he can't handle."

"Right," Sam says, pretending to agree with the lie. It's _exactly _like Dean to do that. For Sam, Dean would do anything. And Sam hates it. "Where did you look for him?"

"I went around all the alleys he works usually, and all the bars he picks up women and hustles pool. Then I went to Bobby's and found that." She waves a hand towards the letter. "God knows when he left it."

Then there's a silence that would usually be filled by Dean laying out a plan.

"How about Ellen and I take the local hospitals," Bobby says, looking at each of them in turn. "Jo, you go with Benny to flash Dean's picture around the neighbourhood. Say he's a criminal if you need to, we can deal with whatever problems when we get that boy back."

"Nu-uh, no way." Jo waves her hands in front of her. "I'm not going with Benny. I'll end up beheading him."

Bobby grunts. "Fine. You go with your mom, I'll take Mr Popular."

Ellen turns to Sam, raising a finger. "Sam, you heard what your brother said. Stay outta trouble."

"Fine," Sam lies instinctively.

"I'm serious." Her voice softens. "It bites that you gotta stay here while you're brother's missing, but losing you too ain't gonna help anyone. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure."

Ellen gives him a disbelieving look before leaving the room, followed by Jo. Bobby goes to leave too.

"Bobby," Sam calls quietly, and Bobby turns around.

"What?"

"Shut the door." Bobby does so and goes to stand by Sam, crossing his arms on his chest, baseball cap in his hands.

"Heard anything about the money?" Sam says, mustering his best puppy-eyed look, the one that always works on Dean. Bobby doesn't even flinch.

"How would I know? I look like Jesus to you?"

"Sure, if the beard was a little darker."

"Shut up, ya idjit. No, I haven't, actually." He narrows his eyes defensively.

"Bobby, we have enemies. Any one of them could have tracked us here and –"

"Sam, this is New York. Stuff like this happens all the time. Now drop it, or I'll drop you. Off the building." Bobby leaves before Sam can say anything else.

Sam lies back in the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. _Back to square one. At least he's safe. Well. Probably safe. Maybe safe. Oh God, please let him be safe._

Then he's overcome with coughing and figures whatever Dean's doing, he's gotta be better than Sam, which makes him feel a little better.


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N: This chapter is basically just Dean/Cas fluff. Yum. Enjoy!_**

* * *

_Chapter Six_

Day Three in the cliché abandoned warehouse and Cas is already feeling the effects of eating nothing but sandwiches and drinking nothing but bad beer. His stomach moans to him every few minutes, his hands shake a little, and his digestion is... not pretty.

He mentions this to Dean about an hour after breakfast, as Dean fiddles with an old television, trying to get it to show something. They'll both go out of their minds if they have only each other for company. "Suck it up," Dean replies.

"How long will I be here?"

"God knows. Only a couple more days, at most. Depends on how cooperative Daddy Bigbucks turns out to be. I'll try him again in a little while." A spark leaps from a lead and he jerks his hand away. "Jesus. Electricity is a little bitch."

"How many provisions do you have?" asks Cas, watching.

Dean looks up at him. "Ah. Um."

"Dean?" His head tips slightly to the side.

Dean smiles his _you can't hate me for being an idiot cos look at this face I can pull _smile. "Uh. I didn't know how long it would last, and I kind of just grabbed... everything."

"That tells me nothing."

"I have enough for two months."

"Dean!"

"And five people."

Cas sighs heavily, frowning. "That's awfully reassuring."

"We're not gonna be here for, what, five months? Yeah. We're not gonna be here that long." He goes back to the leads, twisting loose wires together with surprisingly nimble fingers. "I think the smell coming off you would kill me."

"But I washed myself yesterday."

Dean holds his hands up. "Kidding."

"I don't smell anything –"

"Jesus, Cas, it's just a joke. You don't stink. When you do, I'll tell you." He focuses his attention fully back on the wires, humming Zeppelin's _Ramble On _softly to himself. A few minutes later he notices that Cas is still staring at him.

"Whatcha doin'?" Dean asks, mock coy.

"You called me Cas." He says it plainly. It's a fact.

"Yeah, so? I'm lazy. Castiel's kind of a mouthful."

Cas smiles self-indulgently. "No one's ever called me that before."

"What, _never?_" Dean raises his eyebrows. "Jesus. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you don't have much fun in your home life."

"Your limb is correct." They lapse back into silence for a few moments before Cas says, "If you think Castiel's bad, I know a guy called Lucifer."

Dean snorts. "You're fucking kidding me."

"He was in jail, too."

"Of course he was. Name like that you either gotta be a criminal or a damn good stripper."

Cas smirks. He stretches his arms above his head, feeling the sharp friction of the rope against his skin. "Ah," he whispers involuntarily. He drops his hands into his lap, trying to keep them as still as possible.

"What?" Dean says, glancing up. "Oh. Sorry. They were all out of velvet ribbon."

"It's okay." Just because he likes Dean doesn't mean he's not still minutely scared of him.

Dean deliberates for a few moments before saying, "Tell you what. You behave today, cooperate, and I'll let you free tonight. Deal?"

Cas had never thought it would be so easy to be around Dean, to spend all his days in a dingy room with nothing but stale air, rock music and bad jokes. But this is turning out to be almost a holiday from the real world that waits for him; Harvard, finals, his parents, _girls, _the whole compendium. _That's messed up, Cas, _he thinks, resisting the urge to shake his head seeing as Dean's eyes are still on him. _Your kidnapping is a holiday? Messed up. You're more depressed than you thought._

"Yes. Deal. Thank you." He tries to smile gratefully, and it falls flat. Dean either doesn't notice, or pretends not to. Or most likely he just doesn't care. "How are you doing?"

"Nearly there. Little bastard's from, like, 2001. Everything's so excessive, it's exhausting." Dean glares at the television.

"Are you gonna be able to –"

"Yeah, I can do it. It's just freakin' _annoying._" He picks up a screwdriver and damn near stabs the thing into the television. "C'mon c'mon c'mon," he mutters under his breath. Cas's eyes drift innocently down from Dean's hands to his arms, tensed up and mostly bare in the t-shirt he's wearing. _Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit. _Cas is getting pretty mad at his newfound sexual security. A few weeks ago, he'd be wetting himself and avoiding eye contact. Now, he wishes his hands were free because oh, the things he would do to Dean.

_Fucking messed up._

"Aha!" Dean cries, throwing his hands in the air. "Done!"

Cas squints, craning his neck and leaning to the side to see the front of the TV. "There isn't a picture."

"Well yeah, cos it's not _on, _dumbass." He presses a button and the screen flickers to life, just so happening to show some pretty hardcore pornography, the sound turned up very high.

"Holy shit!" Dean yells, scrambling towards the remote. He skids across the floor, catches it in his hand, and points it under his leg to mute the sound. "Shit."

Cas looks at him, sprawled out on the floor, leg still held at an unseemly angle. Dean looks at Cas. Cas starts to laugh. Dean joins in. Pretty soon they're both wiping tears from their eyes.

"Damnit, man. That's not something that happens every day." Dean gets to his feet, wheezing a little and rubbing his hand over the pit of his stomach to ease his cramps. He sits down next to Cas, flipping through the channels. "Alright. What we got."

_Soap opera, soap opera, adverts, Star Trek – _"What about that?" "No, man. That's _Next Generation._" – _infomercial, adverts, news –_

"Can we watch the news?" Cas asks, suddenly excited.

"Sure, okay." Dean turns the volume back on and lowers it considerably. They sit there for a little while, watching the headlines. Dean gets bored almost immediately, and instead watches Cas watching. His eyes have lit up, and though his face is seemingly emotionless, Dean can tell he'd be smiling if he were alone.

The blue eyes dart to the side to catch the green. "Whatcha doin'?"

Dean laughs at the back of his throat. "Man, your humour is way down there in Hell with the _real _Lucifer."

Cas's eyes flicker back to the screen. "Is that your way of calling me hot," he says, so deadpan it causes Dean to gape a little.

"Don't push it. I still have a gun, you know," he replies, obviously amused.

Cas just smirks and watches the screen. Dean just shakes his head and watches Cas.

* * *

"It's ringing," Dean calls, holding the phone to his ear. Cas sighs in relief.

"Hello?" says an irritated voice on the other end. _He even sounds like a dick, _Dean thinks. _No wonder Cas is so... Cas._

"Hey babe. You get my message?" Dean coos. He turns to Cas, who mouths, _speakerphone. _Dean turns it on.

Dick's voice turns even darker. "Yes. It was sickeningly poetic, I have to say."

"Thank you, always nice to hear from a fan. I'm here all week. Or, I will be, unless you give me five million dollars."

There's an exasperated sigh, causing the speakers in the cheap phone to crackle. "Listen here, you piece of shit," Dick says, every syllable emphasised. "Let me talk to my son."

"No can do, padre." _Sorry, _he mouths to Cas, who simply glares again.

"I don't negotiate with terrorists, child. Don't be naïve. Give me Castiel and I won't send you to jail for the rest of your nothing life."

There's always a small pause before Dick speaks. _Bastard's multitasking, _Dean realises. _He's talking to his son's kidnapper and he's fucking multitasking._

Dean barks a laugh into the phone, purely for affect. "You don't call the shots here, old man."

"We'll see about that. Hope your wifi's good, or you're gonna get a lot of complaints from Castiel."

"Actually, it's surprisingly – hello?" He glances at the phone. "He hung up on me!"

"Are you fucking _kidding me_," Cas cries, lowering his head to rest in his lap. He lets out a low groan of despair, cupping the back of his neck with his hands.

"Woah, man. It's okay." Dean frowns, searching through his mind for all the crappy speeches people have made to him over the years. "He loves you, he just doesn't know how to show it. He... he'll come around. You gotta show him the real you."

"Please be quiet," Cas moans. He slowly lifts his head, face flushed red. He takes a deep breath, his chest heaving up and down. "My apologies. That was pretty out of character for me."

"More beer?" Dean suggests, starting towards the mini fridge.

"Do you have anything stronger?" Cas asks, surprising himself again.

"Yeah, course," Dean laughs. "Damn, when it comes to your dad you're pretty messed up, huh?"

"Understatement." He raises his eyes to watch Dean fish in an old cooler for something. Eventually he lets out a whoop of success and pulls out a fifth of whisky. "Surf's up!" cries Dean, pouring two tumblers. He walks over to Cas and holds one out, before realising the glass is probably too small and delicate to survive Cas's hamfisted attempts at coordination while he's tied up.

Dean deliberates for a moment, before setting the two glasses back on the side and untying Cas's wrists, a few hours before schedule. "Thank you," Cas mutters, flexing his wrists and then taking the small glass from Dean's outstretched hand. He sips at it gingerly.

Dean wanders over to the side again, fiddling with the stereo. He stops when Kansas's _Angels Have Fallen _begins to blare out. "Yes!" Dean cries in triumph. "Man, I'm so good at this."

"I don't think 'using the radio' is a viable skill, Dean."

"Whatever. So what about you, Cas?" Dean asks, walking slowly towards him, a smile brewing on his face. "What kinda music you into?"

Cas blushes. His music taste is pretty obscure, very different to Dean's. "Not much."

"Don't be embarrassed. As long as it's not Bieber you're alright." Dean taps his foot to the beat of the song.

"Who's... nevermind." He thinks for a second. "It's a bit of everything, really."

Dean looks at him before saying, "Come with me." He walks off, through the door they go through to the bathroom. Cas sets down his glass – he really hates whiskey, it tastes like gasoline and urine – and follows.

He leads Cas through to a back room, loaded with the supplies Dean brought for an entire bunker full of people. Cas lets out a low whistle. "You weren't exaggerating."

The walls are lined with boxes of bottled water, food, and records. "Over here." Dean points to the records. "See if there's anything you like."

Cas walks over, breathing in the dust and faded jackets. He starts to thumb through them slowly, gradually becoming more eager as he realises Dean's taste isn't just yes-we-have-testicles-rock. Still, it's mostly hard rock with a few musicals he's never heard of. Nothing rings a bell. Until –

"You like Tom Waits?" Dean comments as Cas pulls out _Rain Dogs._

"I love him," Cas breathes involuntarily, looking at the cover, the title standing out in vivid blue.

"Well, c'mon then. Let's not keep him waiting." Dean snatches the album from Cas with a smirk and a flippant wink and returns to the player in the main room. It isn't until ten seconds later that Cas gets the joke, causing a burst of ugly laughter to erupt from him. He really hopes Dean didn't hear.

By the time Cas catches up, the beginning of the title track _Rain Dogs _is already echoing around the mostly empty room, sending chills up Cas's spine. He wonders if Dean's messed with the player; the quality is astonishing. He moves to stand next to him.

"Your taste ain't so bad," Dean tells him.

"Likewise."

Cas closes his eyes. It was almost a ritual at home: listen to old, sad music after a hard day, close his eyes, pretend he was in a bar in a lonely town, breathing in whisky fumes and old smoke, and someone made eye contact with him. He could imagine that someone being Dean. If only they'd met under different circumstances.

He opens his eyes again. _Damnit, you have to stay in reality this time. _But it's hard to when what's happening to him is so unreal.

"_Oh how we danced away all of the lights,"_ Dean sings quietly. He catches Cas's eye and looks away quickly. They stay silent until the song ends, whereupon Dean mutters something about lunch and strides off.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N: Ugh I've had exams four days in a row. Still going, though. Try and stop me. Please review, I need the motivation!_**

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

A few hours later, Cas is staring out of the window, trying to work out the time from the position of the sun in the sky. He can hear Dean singing under his breath from behind him.

After a while, it starts getting annoying, the low, erratic sound buzzing in and out of his hearing range. Cas turns to Dean to discover that he's writing something, head bent down low over the paper, pushing down hard, face somewhere between a frown and despair.

"What are you doing?" Cas asks after watching Dean for a moment. Dean looks up immediately, covering the paper with his hand even though Cas is too far away to make anything out. "Nothin'," Dean replies immediately, blatantly defensive.

Cas narrows his eyes, but doesn't push. "I _mean_, what's that noise coming out of your mouth."

Dean laughs a little, breathily. "Watch it, man," he jokes, "or this might become a torture thing. Little _Zeppelin_ on the radio, maybe paint cans for drums, hell, I could even get a microphone."

Cas grimaces, but grins. He watches as Dean finishes up what he's writing and folds up the paper. His hands, big and surprisingly careful, rub across the skin of the words as he smoothes the paper down and tucks it nimbly into an envelope. He's obviously aware of Cas watching him but ignores it, writing something on the envelope before stuffing it in his back pocket and striding over to Cas.

"The hell are you looking out the window for?" Dean mutters, grabbing a chair and turning on the television.

"Not all entertainment is digital, you know," shoots Cas, turning to the TV all the same. Dean surfs through the channels, weirdly focused. Finally he lands on the image of a huge boat that Cas recognises vaguely.

"What's this?" he asks.

"This," says Dean, amused, "is _Titanic_."

Cas frowns as he watches the movie for a couple of minutes. It doesn't seem like Dean's kind of thing at all - no one's dying, swearing or taking their clothes off.

"What's so good about it?" Cas asks.

"See her?" Dean points to the screen where a beautiful redhead is walking with a blonde boy. "In about five minutes we're gonna see her rack."

_Ah. _Heat creeps up Cas's neck. "I thought men weren't supposed to watch those things together."

"I mean this in every possible way - Winslet's rack is fine. It's when it gets south of the border you gotta keep it confidential."

"Oh." He sits there uncomfortably as Dean twiddles his thumbs and unashamedly waits for porn.

"Women, man," Dean says without turning. "Nothing they can't do. Or should I say, do _to_ you." He chuckles and turns to Cas. Cas turns quickly away, avoiding his eye.

Dean waits a few seconds before saying, "You have been with a woman, right?"

_Oh, God._ Cas shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. He rubs the back of his neck in an attempt to feign nonchalance.

"Seriously?" Dean practically yells. "You mean you've never been uptown doing a little, I dunno... banker-seeding?"

"I've never had occasion, okay?" Cas mutters, looking at Dean and then away.

Dean sits there in shock for a few moments, incredulous. In the end he runs a hand through his hair and says, "Alright. C'mere."

"What?" Cas blurts, full on blushing now. _What is he doing? Is he gonna- what?_

Seeing the look on Cas's face, Dean cries, "What - no, man!" Laughing, Dean pulls Castiel out of his chair. "I'm gonna teach you how to talk to women. You wanna learn from anyone, it's me. C'mon, it'll be fun."

"Dean, I don't want to -"

"Look, there's not that much entertainment in this goddamn place, okay?" Dean stops and looks Cas in the eye. "Let me do this for you."

And then Cas can see how truly bad Dean feels about what he's doing. How incredibly guilty he is about keeping Cas away from his family, his home, his entire _life_. And what disturbs him is that Cas doesn't mind at all. But it really makes him wonder why the Hell Dean's doing this.

"What about 'Winslet's rack'?" Cas says, doing air quotes with his fingers.

"Missed it. Boat's sinking, people are drowning, no more boobs."

"Alright," Cas sighs melodramatically, voice laden with defeat. "Go ahead."

Dean sits down on the stool on one side of the counter protruding from the bench, and Cas sits on the other, so they're face to face.

"The first thing you wanna do," says Dean, leaning his arm on the table in between them, "is pick a classy girl. You don't want any of those 'Starla' types. More trouble than they're worth. I should know, I've had like fifty of them."

"And by 'had' you mean..." Cas waves his hand noncommittally in the air.

Dean nods once, expressing no pride or immodesty. For some reason, he's all business. "Exactly. Now. It's pretty easy to tell the classy from the brassy. The classy are usually with a few friends; more work, but it's worth it. Sometimes a few times over, if you know what I mean." He raises his eyebrows. "Sometimes _at the same time_."

"Oh," Cas says as realisation dawns on him. "_Oh_."

"Yeah. The brassy tend to be alone, or in twos. A lot less work, if you like that kinda thing, but I sense that's not your type. No, you want the cuddly type of sex. Eye contact. Tenderness. That crap." Dean looks at him for confirmation, but Cas just stares back, unable to form a comment. "Alright," Dean continues. "You locate your chick. You wanna go to her line of sight and wait. Then you wanna catch her eye and do this."

Here he catches Cas's eye, almost demands it, _grabs_ it, looking up under his eyelashes, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly as if peering. He then meets his gaze full on, so subtly intense, so seemingly filled with unflinching shock and desire, and smiles ever so slightly.

"Woah," breathes Cas against his will.

Dean drops the face and looks at him normally, saying, "You don't wanna sleep with me now, do you?"

"Bite me," Cas replies, thinking of fields and trees and insects and anything to keep his boner down.

"Hah. So you got the eye contact. Then you wanna wait a few minutes, till they're thinking maybe you're not coming, before you show up. That way they're so relieved they'll agree to have a drink before they even know what's going on."

"Oh, and people say romance is dead," Cas deadpans.

"You're a little sassy, you know that?"

"I do. Continue."

Dean smirks. "Right. I'm going to assume you don't know how to talk to women, either."

"Actually, I can have rather pleasant conversations with women. They tend to like talking about current affairs."

"No- Cas." Dean shakes his head. "You don't wanna talk about the news with women you want to sleep with. The female mind is a complex machine. There's no winging it - you gotta know precisely how to get from A to B, A being clothed and B being naked in the back of your car with some redhead who thought she was about to die. Capische?"

"Yeah, it's just..." Cas runs a hand through his hair, feeling how coarse it is thanks to the cheap soap. "Would this work on... men?"

Dean's mouth drops open. "You're _gay_? Jesus, I had no idea."

"We don't all share a defining feature, Dean," Cas says, irritated. "There's not something wrong with me."

"I know, I know. Uh. Okay. Men. Here I'm shooting blanks." He deliberates for a few seconds, rubbing his hand over his neck and chin. "Well the classy vs. brassy thing still works, right? Tell the 'you's from the 'me's. Uh. Not really sure how to flirt with a dude, though."

"What works on you?"

Dean snorts. "Anything. You don't want a guy like me." But he considers the question anyway. "Mostly it's not what they say, it's their vibe. Dark hair. Nice eyes. Nice smile. Nice... I don't know, presence?" He's looking off into the distance, as if analysing a memory.

"Well, what do you do with women?" Cas asks, resting his chin in his hand and leaning more towards Dean.

"Nah, that's not gonna work. I talk about my "job as an FBI agent", about how lonely it is and how I'm constantly close to death, quote a few Kansas songs about how we're all dust in the wind and bam, bang. I don't know about you but I'm thinking most guys won't fall for that, huh? Some might, but you're better off with something else."

"I thought we were talking about classy girls?" Cas says, narrowing his eyes playfully.

"Hey, smart chicks can be dumb too. When you look like this they don't think much." Dean grins, and Cas silently agrees with him.

"Hey, I know. Practise on me."

"What?" Cas can feel himself flushing pink already. Again.

"C'mon. I'll help you. Picture this." Dean leans back, his voice growing darker as he gestures with his hands to set the scene. "A dark bar. Jukebox playing something low, smooth, discreet. It's ten in the evening, and you're drinking hard whiskey. It's been a rough day. You want something meaningless or hey, maybe you don't. But the important thing is that you're in control. You look up and see an impossibly handsome man across the bar." He points to his face, smirking. "What do you do, go."

"Oh, right." Dean watches as Cas closes his eyes, breathes in and out, getting into the mindset. Then Cas opens his eyes and Deans mouth falls open again. The change in Cas's face is so pronounced its almost aggressive. He's confident, dark, and, apologies to his heterosexuality, but damn sexy.

Cas does the move that Dean showed him, raising his head and throwing so much lust towards him that Dean almost falls off the stool. "Too much?" Cas whispers, trying to remain in character while seeking advice. "No, great," Dean whispers back quickly.

"Excuse me," Cas says in his deep voice, gravelly yet silky smooth, making the friction between Deans clothes and skin feel a lot more constricting. "May I buy you a drink?"

Dean tries to reply as though he's a gay guy in a bar, and doesn't think about how short a distance his imagination has to stretch. "Yeah, sure. Beer would be nice."

"My name is Castiel." He extends a hand towards Dean, who shakes his head. "Nah, no hand shaking."

Cas takes his hand back. "Okay. Right." He recomposes himself. "My name is Castiel."

"Hi Castiel. I'm Dean."

"Dean." Cas smiles. "I like that."

"Picked it myself," Dean smirks.

Cas laughs, a sound that gives Dean chills from his head to the tip of his - uh, nose. _Fuck, what's happening?_

"So Dean, what are you doing here?"

"I had to get out the house. My brother's driving me crazy."

Cas raises his eyebrows at the sudden personal information. Dean curses internally. That wasn't meant to come out. "Oh, really? How so?"

"He's always getting on at me about my music and my untidiness. Also, my diet. What's wrong with double bacon cheeseburgers?"

Cas looks him up and down. "Well, you look just fine to me," he says quietly.

Dean fights down a smile. _How did this even happen? I gotta put a frickin' end to this._

"Thanks, Castiel. So what about you, what's your depressing story?"

Cas looks down at Dean's hands. Dean winds his fingers around each other so Cas will have something to watch. "My dad," says Cas slowly. "He's a pain in the ass. I didn't... I got a B at college, in my English final."

"Congrats," Dean smiles. "Where do you go?"

"Harvard, but - no, a B isn't good enough." Cas's eyes are huge and the blue seems darker now, more like the night than the day. "He kicked me out for a few weeks over winter break until I 'got my life together'." He does air quotes again, still concentrating on Dean's fingers. "I had to sleep on a train one night. He wouldn't even let me back in to get my wallet."

He looks up now, into Dean's eyes, and Dean is taken aback by how clearly he can see Cas, and how beautiful his soul looks in the soft lighting of his words.

Cas looks away, and waits a few moments before saying, "I don't think beer will fix my daddy issues, Dean."

"Yeah, it's not so much a cure than a treatment. A shitty one at that, but the best one there is. At least you know how to whore yourself out, too." He reaches across to grab two beers from the mini fridge. "No harm in trying."

Cas takes one from him gratefully. "Thank you. So how was that?"

Dean accepts the obvious change of subject. "Yeah, you started off good. Maybe keep it light, though." Cas laughs under his breath and, in spite of himself, Dean laughs too.

They drink quietly for a minute, Dean glancing at Cas every now and then. His face has returned to his mask. _Damn._ He'd really enjoyed those few moments he'd got a peep show into Cas's soul.

"Dean," says Cas slowly. "Your brother... is that why you're doing this? For him?" He looks up to meet his eye.

Dean puts down his beer. "Night, Cas." He leaves the room without looking back. Fuck, Cas thinks. Fuck fuck why did I do that.

_Guess I should know by now that affection is most commonly one sided._


	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N: Sorry this is a little late, but all the plot things start happening really soon; I'll make it up to you. Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews!_**

* * *

_Chapter Eight_

The crappy digital clock on the floor tells him it's 4am. His bleary eyes open and look around, momentarily wondering why his bedroom is so big and cold and smells so much like men. Then he remembers he's in some warehouse somewhere and so far from home and uses the sleep in his eyes as an excuse as to why he wipes them. _Instinct; fight, flight, sit and cry. Glad I made the noble choice._

Cas looks over to where Dean is usually stationed, in the armchair in the corner, gun in his lap. He frowns. Dean's not there. _Something's wrong,_ Cas thinks. _Something's different._ Usually Dean wakes Cas up at around nine with a shitty breakfast after sleeping in the armchair briefly. Where the Hell could he be?

He slides his feet over the edge of the couch, feeling the cold concrete on the bare skin as he pushes himself up to stand. Pulling on his socks, shoes, suit jacket and trenchcoat, he quickly runs his eyes over the room. Dean is nowhere to be found.

"Dean?" he stage-whispers. "Dean?"

An edge of fear has crept into his voice. If Dean's gone - how the Hell is he ever gonna get home when he has no idea where he is? Every window he's looked out of has only showed miles of desert.

"Dean," he says, and there's urgency in it now. Cas only has a limited knowledge of the layout of the warehouse: how to get to the bathroom, the supplies room, and back again. But he figures that if he keeps his wits about him and remembers as he goes, he can explore and be able to find his way back again. Pulling his jacket tight around him to fend off the chill, he heads through the door on the other side of the room.

_Shit I've made a mistake_, is his initial opinion on the situation he's slam-dunked himself into. He's immediately hit with a sense of danger as he turns left at the fork, as opposed to turning right, as he has done every time before. There's something again. That low level something that puts him on the edge.

_Oh._

Dean's left his gun on the side. That must be it.

It's on a little shelf on the right side of the hallway. Cas holds eye contact with it, finding it a lot less intimidating now that it's lost its power. What's that saying? '_It's not the gun, it's the man who holds it._' It's obvious Dean's not a bad guy, but therefore he must be doing this for a cause that means a lot to him. There's no knowing the lengths he'll go to.

_Right. Focus._ The gun was obviously placed on the shelf in passing. Cas tentatively places his right hand over the gun, imagining himself placing it down. From this he can tell that Dean was walking in the direction he is; forwards, away from the main room. It's also likely that this is the last place he could put down the gun before reaching his location, or -

The exit?

Is it possible that Dean had left? Is there a chance that Cas is slowly but surely following this path, and will arrive at the same place? Could... could he escape? _Should_ he?

He looks around himself and concludes that Dean probably just went straight ahead.

He walks forwards the ten or so yards to where there's a corner, and –

"Stairs?" he says in surprise, before slapping a hand over his mouth. _Idiot. _He looks up; they lead to a door labelled 'fire exit'. But why on Earth would Dean be going up to the roof?

Curiosity overpowering his common sense, Cas tiptoes up the stairs and onto the roof of the building.

It's a clear night, hardly any clouds in the sky, which is still black with only the slightest hint of blue. Cas inhales deeply, relishing being outdoors again. He finds himself on a wide concrete surface, with no discernible features – except, of course, the man in the lawn chair who hasn't noticed him.

Cas watches him for a little while, just sitting there, looking out into the night, not doing anything, not moving, not saying a word. Cas doesn't even feel the need to make his presence known; he's perfectly content observing.

After five minutes or so, Dean begins to move. He reaches into the cooler by his left, picks out a beer, and holds it out behind him. "You stare a lot, you know," calls Dean. He hasn't turned around once.

_Of course. How can you con a conman?_ Cas laughs under his breath as he walks towards Dean, taking the beer from his outstretched hand and sitting on the floor beside him. "Sorry. I didn't want to impose."

"Nah, it's fine. Seeing as I've transplanted myself so much into your life, seems only fair you should get your foot a little in mine, right?" Dean steeples his fingers in front of him, elbows perched on the arm rests. "What woke you up?"

"I don't know," Cas says, quietly. "I suppose I've become used to your presence while I sleep, and noticed when it left." Their eyes meet briefly. _Like when you noticed I was behind you,_ he doesn't say. Cas is the one who looks away first, glad that the cold wind sobers the heat he feels in his face. "What about you?"

Dean sighs, drawing it out. "Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think."

"So you came to the _roof?_"

"Hey, don't knock it. It's freaking peaceful." The aggression in his voice when he says this causes Cas to laugh and, after a few seconds, Dean laughs too. Cas finds himself leaning on Dean's chair for support, and then simply not sitting back up. His shoulder lightly touches Dean's calf. Neither of them move.

The air is sweet and thick, and Dean takes a huge breath of it before continuing. "I dunno, man, there's always been something to me about roofs. Being above it all, all the problems, just, leaving them behind, but still within reach. Being above it all makes everything seem a bit more manageable, you know?"

Cas rests his head against Dean's thigh and nods into his jeans. It's warm and rough – like his hands, like him.

"Must be like that for you all the time," Dean mutters. "Being above everyone else."

"Money isn't everything, Dean." He lets a little bitchiness creep into his voice.

"Money is power, and power's the most valuable thing you can have these days." They both know immediately that this is not something Dean believes, however much he might want to.

Suddenly, Dean laughs. "What?" asks Cas, suddenly self conscious.

"You remind me of my brother, you know that?" Dean turns to him, eyes warmer and happier than Cas has ever seen them.

"How so?"

"You're... bitchy."

Cas smiles. "Thank you."

"Cas, goddamnit, I didn't mean it as a compliment!" Dean says, laughing, hunched forward slightly. "See, there's that, too. You're quick. Sam used to be quick."

He stops laughing immediately. Cas stops smiling. He feels Dean stiffen beside him.

Slowly, with light trepidation, Cas reaches out, places his hand against Dean's calf. After a few nervous moments – in which Cas stands his ground and keeps his hand where it is – he feels Dean relax under the touch.

They sit and watch as the sun rises. It takes safe side of an hour, and all Dean can think about is how Cas's hand stays in the same place the whole time, never faltering, never moving. Never leaving. Dean doesn't move away, either. He marvels at how there's a strong sense of forgiveness. Every few minutes, he looks down at Cas, sitting cross-legged on the floor, patient as ever. Dean smiles.

_This guy's really something else._

Maybe it's the roof going to his head, the overwhelming feeling of not being overwhelmed, but he finds himself not scared at the thought.

* * *

When the sun is fully over the horizon, Dean lets out a long sigh, saying, "Alright. C'mon. I can hear your stomach growling from here."

"What time is it?" says Cas, voice still quiet, preserving the sanctity of the situation.

Dean looks at his watch. "About six." He yawns, throwing his head back. "I could do with some coffee." But he doesn't stand for a few minutes more, choosing instead to close his eyes and commit to memory the feel of Cas resting against him: shoulder, head, hand. It makes him feel stupid, but hey, guilty pleasures are allowed every now and then, right? And it's been so long since he's had any kind of physical contact with someone who isn't dying.

Eventually he stands up, holds out a hand to pull Cas up. "You alright?" he asks, seeing as the guy's been sitting on concrete for hours.

"Fine." There's a slight tension in the air between them as they both wonder whether they've overstepped their boundaries. Dean coughs loudly, says, "Breakfast, come on," and walks back down the stairs.

As they head back towards the main room, Dean notices how the winding corridors might be pretty hard to navigate if you didn't know your way around, yet Cas seemed to find him pretty quickly. It was only ten minutes after he got up there that Cas appeared too. "Hey, Cas, how did you find the stairs?"

Cas smiles a little, more in the eyes than anywhere else. "Well." He then goes on to explain about the position of the gun, and his little deductions. Dean looks impressed. "Wow, you are like Sammy. You're both huge nerds."

"Shut up," says Cas as Dean slaps him on the shoulder. They pass a room that Cas hadn't noticed before; he stops and peers in. It looks like a bedroom, but the mattress is bare and there are no clothes in the open wardrobe.

"Hey, what the hell –" comes Dean's voice from behind him. Cas takes a few steps into the room, looking around, and hears Dean's footsteps approaching.

"Oh. Yeah," Dean says from behind him. "This was gonna be my bedroom. But that was when I thought I'd have you tied up all the time. That didn't exactly, uh... it seemed more logical to sleep in the hall with you. To keep watch, you know? Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck, looking so uncomfortable that Cas has to dig his nails into his palm to keep from laughing.

Then he spots an object in the corner, and his eyes widen.

Cas picks it up. "You play the guitar?"

"That's – uh." Dean reaches out and carefully takes it. "That's my dad's."

"Sorry."

"Nah. Yeah, a little." He smiles to himself. "Never good as dad, though."

Cas frowns. "What happened to him?"

"Shut up. Come on, breakfast." He pulls Cas away by the arm.

* * *

Sam's never gonna quite get used to waking up soaked in his own piss. The sheer embarrassment alone would be bad enough, but then there's the actual mess, and the look Ellen gives him and, God, the smell.

"Sam, honey, don't look so embarrassed." Ellen shoots him that pitiful look again, though it's obvious she's trying to pass it off as wincing at the smell. "If you were more trouble than you're worth, we'd have kicked you out long ago."

Sam doesn't doubt it. Strangely, Ellen's sentiment makes him feel a little better. "Thanks, I guess. Bobby around?" he asks, keen to change the subject.

Ellen nods, bundling the sheets into a bag. "Said he'd drop by later with some soup or something."

"Ellen," says Sam, raising his eyebrows.

"Okay, he said he'd drop by, and I yelled at him to bring some food until we compromised at soup."

Surprising both of them, Sam barks out a laugh. Of course, it's followed by a fit of coughing, so that kind of dampens the mood. "That's getting annoying," Sam complains, wiping spit from the side of his mouth.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Ellen mutters, catching Sam's eye and winking. "I'll drop this off on the way to work," she says, brandishing the trash bag. "You gonna be okay on the mattress for a couple of hours?"

"Yeah, course," Sam dismisses, waving his hand. "You go."

"See you later," Ellen calls as she rushes out the door.

The silence that follows is the swallowing kind, which eclipses all form of emotion and thought you could possibly be having, replacing them instead with a reminder it exists.

So he takes a nap.

He's woken a few hours later by a knock at the door. His head is spinning and he's still sweating from his nightmare but he manages to yell, however slurred, "Benny! Get the door!"

The shuffled noises coming from Benny picking himself up from where he'd collapsed the night before come under the door to Sam's reluctant ears. He wipes a hand down his face, groaning as he stretches out his back. He hates mornings. Afternoons. Waking up in general.

Sam listens intently. He hears Benny open the door, shortly followed by Bobby's voice. It sounds disapproving, as it usually does when he's addressing Benny. Benny mutters something sarcastic in response and slouches back to the couch. _Poor guy._ He's really taking Deans departure personally. Still thinks Dean blames him for the money going missing. Benny blames himself for everything. _It'll be the death of him._

Bobby doesn't bother to knock before entering Sam's room, simply slams the door behind him to scare Benny away. "Hey, Bobby."

"Yeah, yeah. Here." Bobby holds out a thermos, and Sam takes it. "I may be a paranoid bastard, but I'm a dependable one."

"Thanks. Any news?" Sam asks.

Turning to face him full on, Bobby says, "Yeah. Plen'y." He holds up an open envelope. "And you're not gonna like it."


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N: AH YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I'VE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS MOMENT. I know I've been really shitty with uploads, it's two parts school and one part writer's block, also a little bit that I suck. But I've got the next chapter almost completely written already so it should be up in the next couple of days, then after that there'll be a couple more chapters, probably get this thing up to about 30k, and then the end - crazy, right? "Yeah, crazy." I knew you'd agree. Also, little heads up, this chapter is so much better if you listen to the song at the same time. I've prepared an 8tracks playlist which I'll share next chapter. Also, thank you so much to everyone who's been reviewing, whenever I'm sad I look back over some of the wonderful things you've been saying and it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. I love u all xoxo. Enjoy!_**

* * *

_Chapter Nine_

_Sam_

_Id hoped that Id be back before you had the chance to really start getting all cute and worried like you do but looks like this is gonna take longer than I thought. So I'm gona tell you whats going on cos you deserve to know and I dont want us to be on bad terms. I cant handle one of your hair flips when I get back jesus christ man. I'm with a rich guys son, he's kind of my hostage. Its cool though, we're friends, he doesnt mind too much, I make nice sandwiches. I'm getting you what you need. Do not look for me, do not freak out. Everything will be ok. Be back within a week._

_Dean_

* * *

"Fuck," whispers Sam when he finished reading, face frozen in shock, the letter hanging loosely in his hand.

"My thoughts exactly." Bobby folds his arms across his chest. "Ain't been nothin' on the news about any missing kid, and I called my friend at the station – nothin' there either. Damn parents probably wanna keep it quiet to avoid publicity."

"Bobby, we gotta stop this." Sam looks up, determination building, flowing through his body, so solid it props up his weak frame. "We've got to."

"I don't see how we can, boy." Bobby raises his eyebrows. "A cancer patient and an old drunk against Dean? I may have been born at night, Sam, but it wasn't last night. We got nothin'."

Sam lowers his head, sighing and thinking, muttering "I don't have cancer" in a pathetic attempt at a response, to which Bobby replies, "I ain't no doctor, I don't know the fancy-schmancy name of it."

As far as Sam is concerned, there's only one way of stopping Dean, and that's going after him.

Unless –

His eyes widen as an idea springs to mind. He flaps his arms wildly, mouth trying to form a coherent sentence through his excitement.

"Sam, calm down. This ain't a good look for you," Bobby comments, amused.

After some deep breathing and some counting to ten, Sam blurts out, "Dean's leaving us these messages in your garage, right? Why don't we leave one for him in the same place so he'll see it?"

Bobby stares at him, unfolding his arms. If Sam didn't know better he'd say the old bastard was smiling. "Well, I guess we know who got the brains in your family. They would have loved you at college, I'll tell you that."

_Ah. _Sam winces a little at the pressure on the old wound. He'd worked so hard for that Stanford scholarship, and then, one day, he couldn't go a day without throwing up. Since his lack of education has stunted his vocabulary, all he can say on the matter is: _life's a bitch_.

"I'll get you a pen and paper," Bobby says in his _I-don't-care-if-I-crossed-a-line-you're-still-not- allowed-to-cry _voice. Sam rests the back of his head on the wall behind him, resulting in a quiet _thud_. He finds he rather empathises with the noise.

* * *

The guitar goes untouched in the corner until later on in day four of warehouse life, when Castiel wakes up after a short nap to sweet music.

He looks over to the source and finds Dean plucking absently at the strings. "Morning," says Cas.

Dean looks up. "Morning. Guess you got me interested in this old thing." He lowers his head to focus on his fingers. "Don't know why I brought it, really. Maybe I thought I'd get bored."

_But I never thought I'd get you_, he doesn't say.

"Can you sing?" asks Cas, sitting up and stretching his long arms above his head. He can't take his eyes off Dean's hands.

"You tell me, you've heard it."

"No, properly. Without screaming."

"I guess. It's not very pretty. Functional," he smirks.

"Do you know _Bottom of the World?_" Cas asks, fiddling with the hem of his coat.

Dean stops playing immediately. The silence is unwelcome. "I see where this is going, and the answer is no."

"Do you know it?" Cas repeats. "Tom Waits?"

"Yeah, I know it. No." To drive in his point, he grabs the guitar roughly around the neck in one hand and leaves the room to put it in the storeroom.

Normally Cas would drop the matter. But something is pushing at it, nagging inside of him. He needs it.

That night, Dean reads while Cas watches the news. It makes him feel better to know the world is still turning out there, still going on, even if the goings-on are depressing. He hears about murder after murder, crime after crime, death after death. It does give him some perspective, though. _Dean could be a lot worse._

He's changed though, Dean. Cas can tell. The atmosphere is much less _I'm making money from keeping you in a room with nothing but sandwiches to eat _and much more _our lives suck but let's listen to good music and act like we can't leave if we want to._

As the headlines begin to repeat themselves, Cas mutes the small television and turns to Dean, where he sits on the floor, leaning against the wall. "What are you reading?"

Dean looks up. "What?"

"What are you reading?"

"Oh. _Cat's Cradle._"

Cas smiles. "Vonnegut. I'd never have guessed. Would have thought you'd prefer _Slaughterhouse 5, _though."

"Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises." He winks and returns promptly to his book. Cas almost laughs at how engrossed Dean has become, how eager he is, how his eyes have lit up as though he's greeting an old friend, how he's lost in the fiction that is immeasurably preferable to reality. But he doesn't. He only watches.

Dean's eyes flicker across the pages, narrowing slightly from time to time. His fingers rub the edges of the worn pages fondly, excited yet reluctant to finish.

"Dude, stop staring at me," he says after a few minutes, without looking up.

"Sorry." Cas gets up. "Do I have your permission to look through some more of your records?"

Now Dean does look up. "Oh. How come?"

"It's entertaining. And interesting." Fastest way to get to know a person is through their music.

Dean deliberates for a moment before saying, "Sure. You got five minutes before I come and get you." He doesn't want to put down his book, making Castiel like him even more. "Oh, and I called your dad when you were napping."

Cas freezes. "And?"

"Voicemail. I think he's freezing me out till I come to my senses or something." He shrugs slightly. "Sorry, buddy. Maybe he'll give in after it's been a week. It has only been five days."

Frowning, Cas says, "It's been four."

"Nah, you were out cold for one, remember? This is day five. I guess it's technically day four for you, though." He smirks. "Sorry about that."

"Shut up." As he leaves, he sees Dean set the timer on his watch.

He walks into the storeroom and heads straight for the old boxes. He moves aside the one he found _Rain Dogs _in, the one he's checked already, placing it gently on the floor beside him. Still squatting, he rifles through the next box.

_Led Zeppelin, Metallica, Led Zeppelin, Blue Oyster Cult, Kansas... _It's not all records this time – there are CDs and cassette tapes in between the sleeves.

His time almost up, Cas reaches the last record. _Orphans, _by Tom Waits. He grins and pulls it out, flips it over. Dragging his eyes down the tracklist, he stops when he sees _Bottom of the World. _He glances up; the guitar is still in the corner.

But _how?_

A minute later, he hears Dean's voice, yelling, "Cas?" as he heads for the storeroom to find him. However, he finds him... and something else.

Cas stands before him, holding the guitar out, eyes begging, ravenous, running on instinct.

"Cas..." Dean tries desperately to detach himself from the situation, but he's tangled in, lost too deep. The strings of Cas's voice wrap around his arms and legs and heart, restricting, yet gentle.

"Please?"

_Goddamnit, _Dean thinks, glaring at Cas and grabbing the guitar by the neck, as he always seems to when he's mad at it. He strides quickly from the room back to the warehouse, where the acoustics are best. Cas follows close – _very _close – behind him.

Cas watches as he pulls up a chair, sits, and rests the instrument on his leg. He plucks gently at each string in turn, tuning slightly. He looks up at Castiel and says, "Gonna stand there?", obviously self-conscious. Cas grabs another chair, anxious to diffuse the tension. He's so desperate for this he can feel it in his bones.

The room falls quiet as Cas looks at Dean and Dean looks at his hands, resting lightly on the guitar, finding their place. Cas holds his breath.

Dean doesn't move.

Suddenly Cas feels intensely guilty; he's making Dean do something he doesn't want to do. "Dean, it's okay, you don't –" he begins.

"No," Dean cuts him off. "No. It's okay. I want to."

Arms folded lightly in his lap, Cas waits.

"I haven't..." Dean takes a deep breath. "I haven't played for anyone since my dad died."

The silence returns, not as empty as before. Dean drops his head, hands loosening around the guitar.

"Dean," says Cas, so quiet it's almost a whisper, so hoarse it's barely legible. Dean meets his eye. After about ten seconds, Cas nods, smiles a little. Dean smiles back. He begins to play.

It's only the guitar at first, for a few minutes, as he gets used to the feel of it. Cas can only stare, transfixed, enchanted, as Dean's hands caress the sounds, playing God to the night. Then, after clearing his throat and muttering something Cas doesn't catch, he starts to sing.

"_Well my daddy told me, looking back._" It's deep and low and full of memories. Cas almost feels he's intruding. "_The best friend you'll have is a railroad track._"

Dean doesn't look up once, just concentrates fiercely on his hands.

"_And I'm lost, and I'm lost, and I'm lost at the bottom of the world," _he sings, so careful, holding the words in his hands, cradling them before setting them loose. "_I'm handcuffed to the Bishop and the barbershop liar, and I'm lost at the bottom of the world."_

Cas is overcome with a barely controllable urge to kiss him. There's an untapped layer to the music, one only Dean, and maybe Dean's father, could understand. But he can feel it, electric, buzzing under the sound.

"_Blackjack Ruby and Nimrod Cain,_" sings Dean, voice quieter, so rough. "_The moon's the colour of a coffee stain._" Here his voice breaks, ripping through the relaxed state he's lulled Cas into.

_Oh, Dean, _Cas thinks, wrapping his arms around himself. _Oh, Dean. _Because there's something there, isn't there? There has to be. _Whose coffee stain was it? Whose coffee stain broke your heart?_

"_Well God's green hair is where I slept last, he balanced a diamond on a blade of grass." _His entire voice frowns. _"Now I woke me up with a cardinal bird, and when I wanna talk he hangs on every word._"

As Dean lapses once again into the chorus, Cas takes a deep breath, finding his chest shakes a little with the movement.

"Cas," he hears. He's closed his eyes without meaning to, so he opens them. The song had ended without his knowing, so he smiles and says, "That was –"

"I'm out of practise, I know."

"Dean, I think –"

"I've never been a great singer, I mean, you've heard me sing AC/DC, right –"

"_Dean_," Cas says firmly. "It was..." Except he doesn't have the word. "Amazing. Really, really, really good." That should do it.

"Shut up," rebuffs Dean, but his shoulders have relaxed a little, and he's smiling, and Cas's eyes may be bias but it seems a small blush is hesitating on Dean's face.

Dean stands up, but Cas shoots out a hand, meaning to catch his arm, but getting his hand. It's warm and dry and rough under his fingers, and doesn't move away from his touch.

Cas lets go quickly, standing to face Dean.

"What?" says Dean, licking his lips.

"How old are you?" The words leave his mouth of their own accord.

"Twenty-one," Dean replies immediately, his face straight, if a little confused.

"Dean."

_Sigh. _"Twenty." Pause. "Nineteen." Pause. Sigh. "Almost nineteen."

"Oh, Dean." Cas shakes his head a little. "Oh, Dean."

"Take your pity and cram it up your ass," says Dean, but there's no heart in it. His eyes slip down Cas's face, from his lips to his neck to his backwards tie. He leaves quickly.

After a few moments, Cas decides to follow him. He heads over to the counter, picking two beers out of the minifridge. "Dean," he calls as he chases after him cos Goddamnit he is sick of Dean running off when things get serious. This is getting more than a hostage-kidnapper dynamic and they both know it. Dean just won't admit it.

Dean turns around, mouth open, ready to yell at him to leave him alone, but he spots the beer Cas is holding out and closes his mouth, glaring. He snatches the beer from him and stalks past back into the hall.

By the time Cas catches up – cos damn, Dean's _fast – _music is already playing. He looks over to the record player to find that Dean's put _Rain Dogs _on again; it'd been lying next to the player since the last time it was used. He soon recognises the song: _Blind Love._

Dean doesn't sing, instead takes a large drink from his beer and asks, "How old are _you, _anyway? I never asked."

"Twenty. My birthday's in about a month."

"Ah, well, happy birthday for then. I assume we won't know each other on the big day."

They both look away.

"Cas, I don't know about you," Dean says after a pause, "but I think the appropriate response to this situation is to get shitfaced. Thoughts?"

Cas nods. "Yeah. Sounds appropriate alright."

"Good." He opens the minifridge and pulls out two more beers. "I'm buyin'."


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: I'm so sorry to everyone who speaks French. I tried for accuracy, but in the end I fell prey to Google translate. I'm so excited to hear what you guys think of this one, feedback would mean the world to me! Also: in chapter three I put that Dean's parents were shot, but let's just pretend that never happened, okay? I've changed it in the chapter, so you can prove nothing hehehe. You'll understand in a little bit. Also 2: I know I keep saying this but genuinely thank you so much to everyone who's supporting this. If I ever get rich you can all come to my huge pool party.**_

_**The 8tracks playlist: /fionasank/the-hammer-and-the-nail-a-destiel-fanmi x**_

* * *

_Chapter Ten_

An hour and four beers each later they're laughing and they can't even remember why, just that it feels good. Cas's shoulder bumps into Dean's as he grabs Dean's thigh for support, having meant to go for his own. Neither of them seem to notice that there might be something inappropriate about that. Cas is a lot more intoxicated that Dean, seeing as he has less body weight and is very inexperienced with drinking, but it's still enough for the edges of Dean's heart to dull enough for him to be able to smile properly.

Cas looks up at Dean. "Man, you're pretty cool."

"Careful, you're starting to sound like me."

Cas snorts. "Am not. I can speak French."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "No way."

"_Si question_." Translation: _yes way._

"If you'd told me that before we wouldn't have had to have that talk about picking up women. Dude, chicks dig French. It's fucking sexy."

"_Oui,_" Cas says, narrowing his eyes menacingly. "_Je m'appelle Castiel. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"_

Dean frowns. "Hey, I've heard that before. Did you just quote _Moulin Rouge?_"

"It means: _would you like to like to sleep with me tonight._ It's a pretty polite way of saying it, though."

"Damn, you say that to a woman in a bar and she'll probably throw a drink in your face. Every chick knows that movie, man." He chuckles. "You sure you speak French?"

Cas leans forwards, heavily invading Dean's personal space, and says breathily, "_Votre mère était un hamster et votre éperlan de père des baies de sureau."_

It takes a few seconds for Dean to stop blinking and gaping like an idiot. Finally he says, "And what was that, for the less educated in the audience?"

"Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries."

Dean laughs, and Cas smirks proudly. "Hey!" Dean cries. "Your first reference!" He claps him on the shoulder and ruffles his hair.

"I used to watch _Monty Python _with my mother," Cas says. And just like that, the good atmosphere is gone.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean replaces his hand on Cas's shoulder, squeezing gently, just enough to make his grip firm.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

An idea flits around in Dean's mind, blurry, but gaining clarity fast. "Hey. I got an idea."

* * *

"I have to say, Dean, I realise now why you like it so much up here." Cas looks out over the roof edge at the expanse of desert, stretching out in every direction, no buildings in sight.

"Yeah?" Dean turns to him, a smile turning up one side of his mouth.

"Yeah. It's, uh. It's powerful."

Dean snorts. "Powerful?"

"To see everything. To know everything that's coming. Like, I guess this is how my father must feel."

"Woah. You get deep when you're drunk."

"I'm not very inebriated anymore, I think the effects have mostly worn off."

"Oh yeah? Walk in a straight line." Dean grins, and Cas glares.

"Point taken." Cas picks up another beer, offering one to Dean, who declines.

While Cas is twisting the cap off his beer, Dean says suddenly, "I like you, Cas."

Cas looks up. After a moment of examining Dean's face, he says smoothly, "I like you, too."

Dean shakes his head a fraction, more for his own benefit than Cas's. "No, I mean –"

"I know what you mean." Cas doesn't even look away from his beer, allowing Dean to show whatever emotion he wants without fear of being watched. Dean chooses to smile.

"This is it," he says simply.

"What?" Cas asks, taking a sip of his beer. _Bastard still winces at the taste_.

Dean thinks for a moment, but it's undeniable: the time is right. He can feel it in the air; the slight smoke from a bonfire that could be miles away or just across the horizon, the soft cool breeze which wakes him up just enough yet leaves him relaxed, the way it's so clear that he can see all the different shades of blue in Cas's eyes.

"It's fucking time, isn't it?" He runs a hand through his hair, shaking it in front of his eyes then brushing it back. Good thing he doesn't need to piss; this is gonna take a while.

"What are you talking about, Dean," Cas says flatly.

"It, uh. It was about a year ago when Sam was diagnosed."

Cas looks up immediately. "What?"

Ever so slightly annoyed by the reaction, Dean continues. He avoids looking at Cas while Cas stares at the side of his face as if it were the _Mona Lisa _or something. _Dean's better, _Cas thinks. _His smile is nicer._

"Out of the blue is an understatement. I mean, a kid in his prime, lined up for Stanford when he's barely hit seventeen?" He breathes out in a huff, and Cas sees the world in it. Dean drinks for a few moments, finishing up the last of his beer. He puts the bottle down and doesn't pick up another.

"It was... those first few weeks were the worst of my life. We were always poor, but treatments were extortionate, I mean, they really abuse you in this fuckin' country." He lets out a low whistle with a chuckle, failing pathetically to cover up his pain. Feeling powerless, Cas doesn't know what to do, so resolves to just sit there quietly, stare, and listen, for now.

"I – uh." Dean clears his throat, turning his face completely away from Cas's view now. _Is he crying? _wonders Cas, before concluding that it's none of his business. Yet he can't look away. _Fuck. Why can't I look away? Fuck stop asking yourself that._

"You asked about my dad," Dean says harshly (overcompensating). He clenches his hand around the arm of the chair, tensing the entire left hand side of his body, the one closest to Cas. "After Sammy's diagnosis, he started drinking again, like he did after my mom died." His voice trembles now, delicate, vulnerable, like a child lost in the woods; he is exploring unknown territory. _No, not 'exploring'. More like 'abandoned in'._

"I'd come home from my second job at 11pm and he'd be passed out on the couch." He runs a hand through his hair, yet it still manages to lie flat. "Sam would be in bed with a knife under his pillow. God, it was hell," he curses, shaking his head in disgust and recollection. "He would ignore Sam, and me, cos it hurt too much. Selfish bastard." Surprisingly, he doesn't drink anymore.

There's another long pause as Dean gathers his thoughts. Cas observes the night sky with his peripheral, his eyes still locked on Dean's face – or, Dean's back of head. The sky is full of clouds, dark ones, but it won't rain. Cas can tell. The air's not quite right.

Recently Cas has been discovering a lot of traits like this in himself; he finds he can communicate pretty well with animals, too. He chalks it up to him being a bored child and spending too much time in the gardens.

Yes. It won't rain. Cas can always tell.

Something lights up in the corner of his eye, and instinctively he looks. It's just a plane, but as soon as Cas tears his eyes from Dean's face, Dean speaks, handing Cas another beer at the same time.

"One time he passed out on the couch and didn't wake up."

_Silence, you son of a bitch._

Cas can feel his heart break a little for this poor, beautiful, selfless, soon to be completely alone boy with green eyes and velvet voice and hands made of magic. And he doesn't even know his last name.

Sandwiching his hands between his thighs, Cas holds himself back; physical comfort is not what Dean needs right now (Cas always wants to touch him), and neither is being asked whether he knows if it was suicide or an accident.

So he simply says "I'm sorry" quietly and lets his heart do that new thing when Dean turns his head back around, so he's looking straight ahead. For Dean, that's affection.

"Anyway," Dean says, so suddenly that Cas flinches. His voice is still gentle, though. He is still telling a story. "Things got a little better after we left Kansas. We moved to New York with our dad's friend, Bobby, and moved in with a couple of Bobby's old friends from the city. This guy, Crowley, he really helped us out, set us up a doctor's appointment, told us about this treatment over in England. He said it was successful only for people with Sam's blood type." He exhales, and Cas can see it burn through the air. "It was our only hope. But it was half a million dollars."

"Why?" Cas asks quietly.

Dean starts a little at his contribution; it's been a few minutes since Cas has spoken. "Well. Thing is it's still very experimental, not to mention illegal. You gotta pay for the effort these guys are going to to find this medical shit without a licence, you know? Then there's the actual medicine, and I tell you, if I sold all my organs on the black market I don't think I could raise that kinda money." He laughs softly to himself (a gift) while frowning, before continuing.

"But we had some savings, about five grand. Bobby put in all he had, so did Ellen, which got us up to about twenty thousand. Then I actually did sell a kidney, which got me about a hundred and fifty."

"You what?" Cas gasps.

"Yeah, I haggled real hard for that price. I was bad cop and bad cop, it was awesome." He grins to the sky.

"I can't believe it."

Dean nods solemnly, and, after a brief hesitation, lifts up his shirt to reveal a pink scar, still prominent, still vaguely new. He runs his index finger over it, then examines his fingertip, as if looking for blood. Cas doesn't blame him. It seems that many of Dean's wounds just keep on bleeding.

"I didn't tell Sam," he says, voice turning to a whisper on the last word.

Then Cas listens to Dean's account of how he mugged and stole and injured and _bled _over the last year to get the money. He listens to how Dean pretended to keep his victims' IDs to make sure they didn't come after him. He listens to how Dean slowly began to hate himself and the system and all the people he stole from, how he began to resent the rich and all they took for granted.

"That's why."

"Why what?"

"Why I asked for five million instead of five hundred thousand. I know you've been dying to ask." He finally meets Cas's stare in dropping his head and letting it loll to the side. "If I'm gonna get something out of this may as well fuck your dad off and set myself up for life."

Cas smiles.

Seeing it, so does Dean.

He tells Cas about seeing Sam slowly dissolve, slowly melt, and having to mop up the puddle on the floor. (Cas remains silent, simply watching Dean's profile, the way his lips move, how his big eyes may as well be canvases he's painted since they reveal so much of his soul.)

He tells Cas about the fateful day where he came home to no money, no hope, no future, and no other choice. (The words glide now as if his tongue is a slip-and-slide; Dean simultaneously is and has never been a child.)

He tells Cas about being on the rooftop with Sam, and feeling so powerless to stop the oncoming storm, the genocide of his only family. (He begins to shake a little. He throws a beer bottle from the ledge to regain some composure.)

He turns to Cas. "I couldn't leave him," he says, voice hoarse, drowning and on fire. "I couldn't leave him to... to leave."

"I know," Cas says. _Apology accepted._

And then Dean tells Cas about how he made his decision.

"I've been going by clichés this whole time, you know. Mean streets of New York. Abandoned warehouse." He laughs, an embarrassed sound. "Man, I don't know about this shit, as you've probably guessed. I'm Samuel L. Jackson, not Bruce Willis."

Cas frowns, his head tipping slightly to the side in confusion. "What?"

"_Die Hard 3._" Dean looks at him. "You never seen a _Die Hard _film?"

Cas shakes his head, and Dean says, "Alright, we'll do that later." He studies Cas for a few moments. "You know, you look like a wounded puppy when you do that."

The frown Cas wears deepens. "I, uh, thank you."

"Don't sweat it. Point is, Samuel L. Jackson's this shop keeper, and McClane – Bruce Willis – is this terrorist-killing national hero who drags Samuel L. Jackson into all of this crazy shit. I mean, Samuel L. Jackson turns out to be awesome, so maybe this wasn't the best example, but the point still stands: I'm a noob. Rookie," he corrects for Cas's benefit.

"And I figured, if I wanted to get back at rich people so bad – cos man, you have no _idea _how many doors were slammed in my face when I asked for help – I should take away what they love: 1) money, 2) each other." He rubs the back of his neck, ashamed to admit he's ashamed. But Cas can tell. Cas can always tell. "And thus the plan was born."

Cas nods. The story is over. He runs both hands down his face, rubbing his eyes to keep himself awake. He doesn't want to miss a moment. Dropping his hands, he replaces them on the arms of his chair. Dean looks over at the movement. Sets his lips in a straight line. Places one hand on top of Cas's.

A small noise is made when Cas inhales sharply. He looks to Dean for explanation, but simply finds Dean's face, again begging for forgiveness.

"Dean, I've already forgiven you." He inserts just enough bitchy irritation into his voice to make Dean listen, but it has the opposite to desired effect. "Sorry," Dean mumbles, pulling his hand away. The loss of heat and contact is almost painful, stabbing pins and needles into Cas's hand.

"No, Dean, that's not what I meant." Castiel reached out and grabs Dean's shoulder to try and plant him in place, but Dean's standing up –

Time seems to slow down for just a second, being the nice guy that she is, allowing Cas to carefully study the way the faintest wind causes Dean's hair to ruffle in complex patterns, the strands tripping over themselves, dying to get close to him.

_Never thought I'd empathise with hair._

Time resumes and Dean's surprised face fills all space and Dean's hair is all he feels and then he pulls, closing the gap between them, selfish, greedy, and it's not a calculated move at all, it's a need so intense he's acted on impulse, like it's wired into his system, like it always has been.

Their lips meet in a hurry, and there's no hesitation, no doubt; this has been too long coming for any of that. Hands immediately grip Cas's hips and pull him closer, snaking under his trench and suit jacket to grip his waist through the shirt fabric, but it may as well not be there, the way Dean's hands are making his skin feel. Cas lets one hand leave Dean's hair and trail curiously down his back, feeling the muscles relax under his touch. He is being held so tightly he hopes Dean doesn't get caught in the blast when the cornucopia of feelings bouncing around inside his chest cause him to explode.

It's all lips and lips and tongues and teeth and spit and tongues and noises and wordless whispers. Blood rushes loudly in Cas's ears, no doubt migrating south for the summer. Dean yanks Cas's shirt out of his belt, brushing his fingertips over his bare spine; Cas's resulting shiver makes Dean chuckle. It's a delicious sound, dark and dirty and predatory. Cas shivers some more just so he can hear it again.

Cas's virginity is yelling its head off, raising Hell all over his body; Cas kisses his way down to Dean's neck, sucking lightly on the soft skin, and whispers, "Come on."

He takes Dean's hand, praying to God he remembers where that bedroom is.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: This one's a bit different. Crap, now I'm really paranoid about plot holes. Tell me if I fucked anything up and I'll fix it. Also, on a completely unrelated subject, I'm working on something else, and I'm waiting until it's completely finished to publish – it's gonna be around 10k. Do you guys prefer things to be published chapter by chapter, or all in one go? Okay, thanks for reading! You're the bomb.**_

* * *

_Chapter Eleven_

**Five Days Ago**

Dick rubs his eyes with a finger and thumb and inhales deeply through his nose. "Okay," he says. "This is what we're going to do. You are going to go out and find Castiel and bring him back because it's your damn fault he's gone, you alcoholic moron." He takes his hand away from his face to look Gabriel straight in the eye, his voice remaining calm. "You are not going to breathe a word of this to anyone because if it gets out that my son is gone, and my other son's a failure, people won't want to give me their money. Are we clear?"

Gabriel grins, sitting on his shaking hands. "Crystal, padre."

* * *

**Four Days Ago**

For once, Gabriel wakes up before noon and takes only two minutes doing his hair. After pulling on those jeans that Castiel hates and a shirt that doesn't smell, he grabs his keys and his wallet and heads out the door of his apartment.

_Ugh. Mornings. _He hasn't been up at 8a.m. in years. But the situation kind of calls for it. Kidnapping could be classed as serious.

Gabriel walks down the street with absolutely no idea what he's doing or where he's going. He stops for a pastry and some coffee for a while, sitting in the small cafe, running over what he knows in his mind.

_Okay. I'm the last person who saw him. What do I know? He was downtown. Which is huge. Okay. Crap. _He runs a hand over his hair. _What do people usually do in this situation? Interview close friends and family, right? Man, I gotta stop watching these procedural cop shows._

The cute waitress takes his plate. He winks. She glares. _Still got it, _he thinks.

Time to get down to business.

* * *

"Have you seen Castiel Novak?"

"Who's that?"

"My brother."

"I don't think I've ever met him."

"Big trench coat. Fluffy black hair. Deep-ass voice. Looks uncomfortable everywhere."

"Oh. I know him. No, sorry."

This is the conversation Gabriel has had with twenty different people in the last six hours and he's starting to get worried. There's still no reply from Castiel's cell phone, and that kid _always _has the freakin' thing on him. After useless interviewee number twenty, he steps outside and tries one more time, in vain.

He decides to leave Cas a text just in case he's shy or something dumb like that. '_Hey, little bro,' _it says. '_Where are you? If you need a pick up from some gutter all you gotta do is ask.' _It goes without saying that facetious behaviour makes him feel better.

The people he's asked so far have solely consisted of his friends and his father's friends, seeing as he doesn't know if Castiel even _has _friends. Then he remembers so suddenly that he stops walking: Cas was at a party night before last, right? Maybe he mentioned something to someone. He snaps his fingers, smiling. _I'm a genius._

Minutes later his father secretary's texted him the guest list and he's calling Ash for their phone numbers because jeez, that kid knows everything, or he can find it out. His eyes widen with anticipation as he places his phone to his ear, the first number dialled in.

"Hello?"

"Hey there, is this Hester?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"My name's Gabriel Novak. You know my brother Cassie?"

He hears a small, breathy laugh on the line. _Cassie, you sly dog, _he thinks, the side of his mouth turning up. "I know him. How is he?"

"That's the thing. No one's seen him for a day or so. Don't happen to know anything, do you?"

"Oh, that's awful. Um. Well, he did text me yesterday morning –"

"Awesome! What did he say?"

There's an awkward pause. "Uh. He was telling me why he couldn't come to the movies with me. He said he had a hangover."

Gabriel's face falls. "Is that_ it?"_

"_Yeah. I've had no reply from him since. Do you think he's okay?"_

"_Couldn't tell you, sister. Listen, who else has Cas's number?"_

"_Well, I got it from Rachel, who got it from Anna. I don't know... I think it's a lot of people."_

Gabriel sighs. "Mostly girls?"

"Uh, well... yeah, I assume." She sounds close to tears now. _Damnit, Castiel got the looks _and _the coat,_ he thinks.

"Thank you. You've been super helpful."

"Make sure you tell him I helped you!"

"No," Gabriel replies before hanging up. He deletes her number from his list, along with all of the men, and women over thirty, which leaves fifteen.

"Crap," he says to himself. He gets up off his couch and grabs a bag of cookies. "This is gonna take a while."

* * *

Two hours later, Gabriel swears if he has to listen to one more high pitched giggle, he's gonna castrate his brother. He's dying to tell all these women that their little crush swings the other way, but he's too good of a brother to force Castiel to come out like that. So he just sweet talks and sighs and eats.

Every one of the ten girls he's called has given him the same response as Hester, and it's starting to piss him off. It's like his brother doesn't _want _to be found. He's not even considered the possibility that Cas has run away. _Guy's life is too boob-filled to run away from. And he's gay! Such a waste._

However, the last caller said that she saw Cas talking to Anna just before he left, and she sounded pretty jealous about it, too. Anna must be closer to him than the rest. He calls her next, tearing into a _Hershey's _bar with his back teeth.

"Anna Milton."

He swallows quickly. "Hello, yeah, hey. I'm Gabriel Novak, Cassie's brother."

"Oh. Hello." This one's different. She just sounds pissed off.

"So Cas went off yesterday, around noon. We haven't seen him since. I'm just checking to see if you've heard anything."

"I was talking to him at around eleven –"

"Let me guess. Texting?"

"Well, yeah."

"Did he reject your well-meaning advances?" He loads his voice with sarcasm. It's the only thing that makes this job fun. He'd quit if it weren't for Cas.

"God, no," she laughs, causing Gabriel to raise his eyebrows. "The night before we'd had a kind of fight, and it was a muted continuation of that. More a discussion than anything else."

"Did he say anything about, you know, going MIA?"

"No, but he told me where he was."

He drops his chocolate bar, causing a quick fumble to catch it before it hits the floor, which he loses. "Yes! Tell me!"

"He said he was in the Bank of America." Pause. "He's alright, isn't he? He's not hurt?"

"How the Hell should I know? Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"No, not really –" she starts before Gabriel flips his phone shut. He grabs his laptop from under the couch cushion and searches for the closest _Bank of America _to the _Taco Bell _they'd parted ways at; they're only ten minutes walk from each other.

He yawns, slamming his head against the back of the couch. _Okay. I can go tomorrow, _he thinks before promptly falling asleep, mouth wide open, the opening music to _Casa Erotica _already playing inside his head.

* * *

**Three Days Ago**

'_Oh baby when you talk like that, you make a woman go mad...'_

Gabriel snorts awake as his ringtone blares out and his phone vibrates his ass uncomfortably. He pulls it out, checking the caller ID: _Dad's bitch._

"Hey, Joshua," he greets.

"Gabriel, I'm calling from your father's office to check up on your search for Castiel."

"Well, I haven't found him yet. Tell the big bag of dicks that... well, that he's a big bag of dicks." He hangs up, yawning again, peeling a sheet of paper off the side of his face. _Oh, mornings. How I want to pour acid on thee. Now _that's _what I call 'just desserts'._

He stands up, sniffing his armpit and concluding that he can last another day. He scans the piece of paper in his hand: _Bank of America, Green Road. Opens 9am._

His watch tells him it's 1:15p.m. _Ah, crap. At least it's open. _There's an old burrito in the fridge that he heats up for lunch, before heading outside again.

* * *

The bank is a lot cleaner than the environments Gabriel is used to. It's also weird to see security guards that don't rip their uniforms off when you wave a dollar in their face. (He tried.)

After a quick conversation with the manager of the bank, in which he name dropped the Hell out of his father, he's led into a back room and introduced to another security guard.

"Garth here will show you the tapes," says the manager, before leaving.

"Hey, name's Garth Fitzgerald IV, but you can call me Garth." The scrawny guard holds up a hand for Gabriel to shake.

Gabriel smirks, ignoring the hand. "So what, you for sweet sixteens or something?"

"What are you –"

"I need the tapes from two days ago, around 11a.m."

"I'm on it." Garth turns to the computer, glad to be of use. "It is on like _Donkey Kong._" He brings up the screen on the wall monitor. "Okay, there it is."

Gabriel walks closer to the monitor, peering at it. "Crappy quality." Then –

"Gotcha, little bro!" He points at the screen – a man in a trench coat is sitting near the entrance next to an old woman with a cat. "Can you zoom in or something?"

"No can do, brother."

Gabriel watches as his brother sits there on his phone, the cat lady getting up to leave. He gets Garth to fast forward the tape until someone else sits down.

"Oh, pretty boy. So _that's _what Cas has been doing." He raises his eyebrows at the muscular man seated next to Cas. They have a brief conversation, and despite the black and white, Gabriel knows his brother is blushing. He chuckles. _At least I got the moves._

Then the man leans in close and says something, and Cas's face falls. _Did he threaten him?, _Gabriel thinks, concern nods jerkily, and the man takes him by the arm and leads him out of the bank.

"Fuck," Gabriel says, eyes widening. "Go back. Get that guy back on the screen."

He looks at the blurry image of the strange man and he can tell that something's up. _It's not like Cassie went home with him, is it? He could never get a guy like that. No, something else happened. He's... he's been kidnapped. _The realisation hits Gabriel like a kick in the balls and he groans, smoothing a hand over his hair.

"What's cramping your style, bro?" asks Garth from behind him. Gabriel really can't tell whether this guy's being ironic or not.

"My brother. He's been Cas-napped."

"The heck is that?"

"Just – can I get a printout?" He gestures to the frozen image on the screen.

"Sure, sure." Garth hits a few buttons, strangely purposeful. A printer springs to life and the stranger's handsome figure comes stuttering out.

Gabriel snatches it up. "Okay, Generic Villian Number Three. Time to find out who you are."

* * *

This is, of course, easier said than done. But isn't everything?

Under strict orders not to go to the police, he's pretty limited with his searching options. But who know about criminals? Other criminals, of course.

And so Gabriel finds himself swanning with extreme trepidation down the back alleys of the city, wandering into the "wrong neighbourhoods" on purpose for the first time in his life. He's not exactly one to play by the rules, but he's too smart to go looking for trouble like this. Hell, trouble's usually the one that finds _him_.

"Have you seen this man?" he asks over and over again. Some people say he looks familiar, and some even look a bit afraid, but no one knows anything about him, really. No one knows where he is, or where he could be.

After a few hours Gabriel starts to get really pissed off. This would go so much faster if he went to the goddamn police – does his father seriously care more about his image than his own son? _Don't – don't answer that. Fuck, when I get Castiel back, he's moving in with me._

To be honest, it's unlikely that Gabriel would go this far for any of his other siblings. He'd just leave his father to deal with the problem. But Castiel is so young and naive and freakin' _nice _that he can't bring himself to give up. Cas is his favourite brother, even if Gabriel isn't Cas's favourite person.

But Hell if he's not gonna get yelled at after all this.

"Have you seen this man?"

* * *

**Two Days Ago**

"Have you seen this man?"

"Yeah, I've seen him around Chevy Street. Think he lives around there."

"Thanks, man. Here's fifty bucks. Get a better deodorant, and stock up."

* * *

**Yesterday**

The evening is, of course, dark. But he's so close to the light at the end of the tunnel.

He still hasn't showered, but it helps him blend in with the people around here. The smell of soap kind of marked him out as different. This way, he can go undercover. _Yeah. I like that excuse,_ he thinks, smiling to himself as he shoves his hands into his jacket and makes his way towards Chevy street.

He's spent the whole day trying to get a hold of his father, which is no mean feat; his secretaries have secretaries have secretaries. In the end he just kicked open the door of his office.

"Gabriel," his father had exclaimed, more amused than surprised. "It's an honour."

"Hells yeah it is. I've been working my ass off finding Castiel."

"Ah, yes. Joshua told me you weren't being very co-operative." His mouth turned up at the corners, and it didn't pass as a smile. "What was the phrase you used?"

"Dad, you're my father, and I love you. But you are a great big bag of dicks."

"That was it."

"What do you think's gonna happen when I find Castiel, huh?" he demanded, voice and anger growing louder as he approached his father's desk, fists balled by his sides. "How the Hell are we gonna get him back without the police?"

"I can hire some men to go in there –"

"Of course, cos all problems can be solved by hiring someone to fix it." He glared, eyes narrowed, jaw set. Despite the height difference, he felt a Hell of a lot taller than his father at that moment. "We have no idea what we're up against."

"Actually, I've had correspondence with the kidnapper. He's very clearly an amateur."

"You..." He blinked in disbelief. "You _what?_ You knew he was kidnapped?"

"You didn't?" Dick arched an eyebrow. "I thought you'd assumed."

"Well, yeah, but –"

"Then what's the problem?"

He felt the anger in his fingers and his palms and his throat. "What did the kidnapper say?"

Dick had the decency to avoid his eye. "He made me an offer. I refused."

"Are you serious?"

"I don't negotiate with terrorists, son. No one should."

"He's not a fucking terrorist, dad!" Gabriel shouted, throwing his arms out. "You just said he was an amateur!"

"Well, yes, but –"

"No 'but's, dad." He slammed his palms down on his father's desk, solid emotion. "This is about you and you're damn paranoia and your need to be in constant power. It's not healthy. It's not _okay._ Don't rub this off on Castiel. Don't catch him in the crossfire. He could be in _serious danger _and you're here trying to play God again."

Dick's usually charismatic face distorted and melted until only the truth was left. "I think you should leave the big decisions to the adults, son. Just find Castiel."

Gabriel jerked his hands to the side, knocking his father's computer off the desk. "You bet your ass I will." He left before Dick could regain any power at all.

Those same hands flex nervously inside his pockets as he approaches the first crowd of people and asks his question, holding up the picture again.

"Have you seen this man?"

This time they're all nodding, saying they've seen him around a lot, usually walking away, and returning late at night. Gabriel thanks them and moves closer to the street.

"Have you seen this man?"

More nods. Some smiles. Some grimaces. He moves closer.

"Have you seen this man?"

Ellen looks up. "No. Have you?"


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: I love you guys so much I'm gonna explode omg. Many thanks to ForeverShippingJohnlock for beta'ing this - check out her stuff, it's all perfect.**_

* * *

_Chapter Twelve_

He hears before he sees anything. Something soft, something nice. _Dean, most likely._

_Oh, right._

Cas sits up abruptly, opening his bleary eyes to find Dean sitting in the corner of the room, on that beautiful Goddamn guitar again. He looks up, smiles, says, "Morning, sunshine," and looks down again.

_Where am I? _Not in the hall. Not on the roof. _Bed. I'm on a bed. My bed? Dean's bed. Dean's..._

"We." Cas thinks for a few seconds. "Did we?" He motions between them. He finds he's still wearing his pants and shirt, but no shoes, socks, or coat. The clothes he's wearing have been buttoned up awkwardly, and he strongly suspects Dean put them on him while he was asleep.

"Have sex?" Cas nods. "You don't remember?" Dean says without looking up.

"It'll come to me in a second. I'm not morning person." He tries to flatten down his hair, knowing full well how hideous it becomes in the mornings, especially when he has a pillow. This hasn't been a problem for the last few nights.

Dean stops playing – the song, he'll tell Cas later, was _November Rain _by _Guns N' Roses_ – and places the guitar down next to the chair in quick, efficient movements. "Nah, we didn't. Came pretty freakin' close, though, but we didn't."

Cas nods again. There's a blanket over him that wasn't there last night. _Last night. _His mind flashes with sweat and contact and whispers and laughs and the feeling of being at home when really he doesn't know where the fuck he is but his mind is racing and his hands are fiddling and he looks back up at Dean and Dean is looking at him and the words are coming out of his mouth and he's saying, "We can't do this."

There's a pause of only about half a second, but it's tense all the same. Dean breaks it with a loud snort. "Well duh. What do you want, the fuckin' Nobel prize?"

"Dean, do we even know what this_ is_?" He gestures between them with his hands. He has no idea what his face is saying, he's concentrating too hard on his words.

"Man, it's too early for this shit. Let's go have breakfast, I've been saving some bacon –" He stands quickly, turning his face away from Cas, moving to leave the room.

"Dean!" Cas shouts after him, and Dean pauses briefly, turning around, but seeing the determined look on Cas's face, he mutters something about _bacon _again and darts out of the door, closing it behind him to buy him more time. "Dean, come on!" He runs after Dean, still yelling his name.

_Of course he's gonna be a child about this. _It's not like Cas is asking him to marry him or anything. He's trying to get this mess cleared up. Doesn't Dean want that too? _He really does seem like a no-strings-attached kind of guy._

Cas finally catches up to him, reaching out a hand to firmly spin him around by the shoulder. He pins Dean to the wall of the hallway, giving him Hell with his glare, acting like he doesn't know how hard his grip is. "Dean," he enunciates, forcing eye contact. "Don't run away from me." It was supposed to be the other way around, in the beginning. _God, what the Hell is going on._

"Jesus, Cas, do we have to talk about it?" Dean pleads, his eyes going all round and innocent, looking up – _how is that even possible, _Cas thinks, _he's taller than me – _at Cas through his lashes, hands up in surrender. "Let's, c'mon, let's just get some food in us then we can just..." He trails off, obviously having hoped Cas would interrupt him. Cas just cocks an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. Dean sighs. "Fuck, I just didn't expect you to make such a big deal out of it."

Cas clenches his hand where it is on Dean's shoulder in surprise and sudden anger, causing the latter to grunt a little in pain. "Dean, you may be able to just separate sexual acts from real life, but it's not gonna work here."

"Why not? Nothing's changed, has it? We didn't have sex, fuck, it's not like we're in _love. _Let's just leave it."

_Are you kidding me? _thinks Cas as his face distorts in disbelief. He uses his other hand to grab Dean's other shoulder, resting his body weight and more on not letting him get away. He leans in so their faces are centimetres apart, which causes an inconvenient flashback. "Don't you think," he says, stressing every word, deadpan as can be, "that maybe, just maybe, you're sending a few mixed signals?" He shoves his palms into Dean with the last two words. "That I might just need some clarification on what in God's name is going on?"

Dean clenches his jaw, officially engaged in the argument now. "How am I supposed to know? You think I planned this shit? You think I _wanted _to –" He breaks off, sucking in air quickly, eye contact stuttering. "I don't know what's going on but it's not gonna help to talk about it."

"This is happening." Cas narrows his eyes a little, peering into Dean's. "I don't care about your emotional baggage or anything. I don't care if you wanna keep all your feelings locked up inside you. This is happening but it. Can't. Happen."

Dean throws his arms out in front of him, catching Cas in the chest and pushing him away. _Don't think about his hands on your skin. Don't fucking do it. _Expression professionally unreadable, Dean says, "Good. I'm not gay," shrugging a little. He takes off down the hallway again before spinning around and saying, "I never fuckin' planned this, okay? I never planned for you." His voice is angry and his words are meant to hurt but they don't, they just snake their way inside Cas's ears and wrap themselves around his heart and he shakes his head to get them out but it's too late, they're stuck there, he's a puppet being pulled by his heartstrings.

Before Dean can leave again, Cas finds himself yelling, "What do you think is gonna _happen, _Dean?! What, you think there's a happy ending to this? This situation, this, this relationship, it's – it can't – it's just..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair, turning away from Dean before turning back to shout, "It's fucked up, is what it is! It's fucked up, and I don't know what's going on and I don't like not knowing, I don't, this is all so new and I can't God would you please _please _just tell me what's going on and I just –"

Cas lurches forwards, almost launches himself at Dean, crossing the space between them in two strides and taking Dean's face in both of his hands and letting out all of his anger and confusion and helplessness through the medium of passion and he lets his hands feel out the anger and their mouths become the confusion and the helplessness is just amplified really as he can't really control what his body is doing, but he can sure as Hell enjoy it.

At first Dean doesn't react to the kiss, moving his lips only slightly, closing his eyes only slightly, but then Cas runs a hand through his hair and Dean lets out this moan that's so victimised, so _offended, _and he just grabs Cas's waist and shoves him against the wall and licks his way into his mouth and just lets go, Jesus, he does everything that Cas has been thinking about all morning.

The heat of his skin, the urgent yet gentle yet rough touches, the desperate groans he cuts off as soon as they make themselves known; these are the things that let Cas know that Dean doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want to end whatever the fuck they're doing. He wants to keep fucking around and having fun because it doesn't hurt, for some reason, and that's a miracle in Dean's life, to find something that provides happiness without pain. It's not simple and it's not easy but it's an opportunity, a getaway, that Dean doesn't want to pass up.

_God, if I could just get a moment to think about this – I'm a bit – I can't think – fuck. _Dean's running his fingernails across Cas's hips and he's moved his mouth down Cas's neck to kiss firmly and deeply at his throat and Cas is just thinking _Dean Dean Dean, _chanting it over and over in his head like a mantra, and before long he's saying it out loud too, Dean himself humming his approval, lingering on Cas's throat a little longer to hear it a few more times before cramming their lips back together, his enthusiasm practically spilling out of him like the sun shining through a window, but Dean is the sunshine but the stars too and _fuck, don't get carried away, there's no way this could work, shit –_

Dean bites his lip and digs his fingers into his ass through his dress pants and Cas is trying to think of a way to fight back instead of just letting himself be taken apart like this, body part by body part, touch by touch, but it's _really fucking hard to think right now shit shit_. He runs his hand back through Dean's hair and _pulls, _scratching his nails across the hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean lets out this low rumble deep in his chest, coming off as a _growl _of sorts, and it's _too fucking hot, oh my God, this is impossible._

Cas wraps his hands around Dean's hips, hands not quite bit enough to meet in the middle, and flips them quickly so that he's pressing Dean into the wall now, because if they're gonna do this, they're gonna do it his way. _I'm the hostage, you ass. You owe me. _Dean chuckles and Cas realises he said that out loud, too. _Goddamnit, I have no control anymore._

He shuts Dean up by kissing him so hard that Dean's head slams back into the wall. "Fuck," he says, quickly, out of breath. Cas is so full of questions that he's going to scream, but that comes later. For now, he slides his hands up Dean's shirt to skim across the planes of his chest, grabbing the hem a few moments later to lift it up and tear it off. He skims his eyes greedily over the toned, tanned skin of Dean's torso. _Jeez, how is that possible when this guy eats like shit?_ Dean closes the space between them to trace the inside of Cas's mouth with his tongue, becoming more aggressive as Cas meets it with his own, and pretty soon there's a fully fledged sword fight going on in there, both wielders instinctively craving the dominance, while their hands and their clothes and their bodies confuse and battle and dance.

It's messy, and it's complicated, and it's in a fucking hallway, but it's a happy distraction, and one they both need. It isn't love, Hell, who knows what it is. But it's sure something.


	13. Chapter 13

**_A/N: So apparently there's no real consistency to these uploads. And for that I am sorry and a terrible human being. But this is long as fuck so... forgive me? I wanna know what you guys think about this one - hopefully you don't hate it too much omg. Allons-y!_**

**_(Thanks again to ForeverShippingJohnlock for being my beautiful beta!)_**

* * *

_Chapter Thirteen_

_I'm twenty years old and this is the first thing that's happened in my life that I would be glad to tell my children about._

_I've spent my life following orders. Keeping to myself. I'm known around my social circle as polite and refined, because that's how I present myself at all times. I work hard. I smile and I like to think I have a nice laugh. My fake one's not bad, either (it's had the most practise)._

_What happened with Dean was not a dream, nor was it a nightmare. I'd call it an illusion; you look at it and you see something obvious, but after further inspection, it turns out you were wrong. You just have to look deeper. Avoid first impressions. You know that something's wrong with the picture. Otherwise, why would they be showing it to you?_

_Looking back on it, I believe the word you'd use is tragedy. You can't turn a corner these days without coming across a tragedy._

_Let me tell you our story. Let me tell you everything. And let me tell you how it ended._

* * *

I sit at the counter, watching Dean work, allowed in the kitchen for the first time. He sings quietly while he goes, not for attention or applause, but for himself, for the sake of focus. The simple task of putting together a sandwich requires his effort; he's rather a perfectionist about food.

However, as I watch, he strays from his usual course of mayo-turkey-lettuce-tomato in favour of more subjective ingredients. Mayo-turkey-bacon-lettuce-ham-tomato-pickle. More. He is happier.

Sandwich one is finished. This is usually his. "Order up," he mutters as he slides the plate across the table towards me. I smile and thank him, biting into the giant of a thing without telling him that I don't like pickle. It's worth it to see the pride glowing off his face.

Dean gets started on his own, and I watch him still as I eat. Occasionally he catches my eye for a few seconds. It's not awkward, it's not uncomfortable, it's not hesitant. It's good.

I don't believe this will end well for either of us.

He still hasn't told me what's wrong with his brother, but from his slight apathy in this crime and the fact that Sam was diagnosed a year ago, I assume that it's not urgent. It is, however, life or death. This much is obvious.

As Dean turns his back to me, delving his hand respectfully into the fridge, I study him. White t-shirt. Jeans. Socks. He's begun to nest. This shouldn't make me happy. I shouldn't like it here. I shouldn't like _him. _But he might go to prison, or I might die, so excuse me if I'm feeling a little reckless.

My eyes continue to follow him - and for once, he doesn't complain - as he sits opposite me to eat. I watch his hands. I'm an idiot. He's an idiot. We're both idiots.

A certain liquid calm always feeds its way up through my fingertips and spreads to the ends of my hair when I am around this man. I don't feel the pressure of performing, of playing the role of the dutiful son and humble brother and perfect student. I don't have to be Castiel, the figure. I can be Cas, the person, because he doesn't know me as anything else, and I don't want him to.

I cast my mind back, throwing my focus like a fishing pole into the sludgy water of my memories, dragging back up the image of a man sitting next to me at the bank and laughing and taking an interest and then taking _me, _taking my arm and forcing me to uncharted waters, turning them from green-grey to blue as the sky, as the ocean, as the jeans he always wears. I have never felt like this about anyone before, and I don't want to ever again. Once is enough. He is (more than) enough.

Part of me feels like I have to constantly reprimand myself for being so stupid. The rest of me doesn't care.

Dean swipes my plate away from me, placing both dishes in the sink. "How many plates did you bring?" I ask, slipping off my stool.

"Two," he calls, amused, over his shoulder, before turning around to face me. I shake my head a little sarcastically. He rolls his eyes.

I approach him with the confidence he's given me, the morphine-like waves that flow off his skin and transfer onto mine whenever I touch him. He continues looking at me innocently, blankly, mockingly, saying, "Can I help you?" as I back him against the sink, placing my hands either side of his hips on the surface. Our faces are now mere inches apart, and he drops his act now, forehead tensing, licking his lips.

"I was just wondering," I say, quiet and low, "whether you know where the bathroom is. Seeing as I need to take a piss."

Pushing myself away from him, I laugh at the complaining groan he lets out. "Well, you can piss _off,_" he grumbles. "You know where the bathroom is."

"You must have dizzied my head, good sir," I say, completely deadpan, throwing an arm over my forehead and leaning back as if to faint. I've learned a thing or two about sarcasm, finally. "I cannot think when the woodsman is near." He chuckles and pushes my arm away, catching my wrists to keep me from running off (which I was planning). I sigh as he kisses me, briefly, softly, as if we have all the time in the world.

Then he slaps me on the ass and says, "C'mon, princess," ignoring my curses as he practically struts away.

I can near hear my brother's voice in my head: _"Really? This guy? Are you a horny teenager in a high school movie? Is he gonna drive you to prom in his parents' car?" _I tell him to shut up before I follow Dean.

* * *

Later he leaves me to watch television while he goes off somewhere to do something. I didn't quite catch what he said. I was staring at the slight strip of skin I could see between his shirt and his jeans and didn't hear what he was saying.

There's still no sign of me on the news. A career move on my father's part; it'd be bad press if it got out that his son was missing. _Can't even take care of his own son? How can he take care of my money? _That kind of thing. I'm starting to see why Dean "hates rich people". (I would say I'm the exception, except it's my father's wealth, not mine. I've no part in whatever he did to get to the top. I just have to live with it.)

Anyway, I've started to branch out. I've watched a few soap operas, cartoons, and at one point a few minutes of a _High School Musical. _I don't know what kind of school endorses a movie, but I was enjoying it until Dean yelled at me.

It occurs to me, as I watch Aladdin fly - on a carpet, of all things - around with Jasmine, that Dean and I never finished talking about our feelings, the future. Neither of us want to. Neither of us are good at it. If it were up to Dean, we'd just leave it forever, but I'm more practical. Dean is more impulsive while I need to get my bearings.

It seems every time I try to talk to Dean about something serious, he deflects me. Eventually, though, he concedes and says what he really feels. But we don't have time for 'eventually'.

So I wait patiently, watching the movie until Dean wanders back in, boasting his victory over the water tank and turning taps on and off aimlessly around the building. He flops down next to me, smelling of sweat and beer and salsa dip and new beginnings, beverage in one hand, other arm behind me on the back of the couch.

"What about you?" he says, eyes trailing lazily across the line of my cheekbone. "Anything good on?"

"Not particularly."

"Wrong answer. I know for a fact that _Dirty Dancing _was just on and you're missing it." He shakes his head. "Idiot."

"_Dirty Dancing_?" I say, incredulous. "Doesn't sound like your sort of movie."

"Yeah, well. Swayze." He rolls his eyes when I frown in confusion. "He's a badass. Nevermind." Our dynamic has changed slightly, the difference between the old and the new only a hair's width. But it's there. The hair is coloured gold.

I lean forwards, our thighs brushing against each other, and plant a small, affectionate kiss on his forehead, nose searching briefly through his soft hair before I lean back and settle down next to him, watching the television. I feel his eyes on me for a few moments, all awe and surprise, before he relaxes, too. He adds a chuckle to his breathing - probably due to the incongruous domesticity of the scene. He reaches across my body to grab the remote and turn the channel, to what I assume is _Dirty Dancing. _It makes me happy when I learn something else about Dean, even a small thing, like one of his favourite movies.

"I don't know your last name," I say suddenly as it hits me. I turn to him, my eyes wide.

He watches me for a few seconds, before sighing. "I shouldn't."

This is as good a time as any, I suppose, though it's a shame to ruin the moment. I turn off the television and sit cross-legged on the couch, facing him, leaning back against the arm rest. "Dean."

He just looks at me. I don't think he wants to do anything else.

"Dean, seriously, I'm at a loss here." I wait for some kind of response. I don't get one. "We need a plan."

"I have a plan."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, actually," he snaps, raising his eyebrows, copying my sitting position except for his legs, which he rests over the edge.

I spread my hands out in front of me. "Care to share?"

He's pissed off now, and so am I. This happened this morning. "Well, if everything goes to plan, we should have you returned to soccer dad over there within a few days. I'll get my money, you'll get your freedom. And then we go from there. No need for anyone to know I was the one keeping you Fort Knox'd."

I can't imagine how ridiculous I must look at this moment, when my mouth opens and I peer at Dean. Every line on my face can be assembled to spell 'disbelief'. Somehow this quickly anagrams into 'hurt' and I turn my face away from him, frowning deeper, lips pursed. He sighs so deeply his breath tickles my ear. "Goddamnit, what's wrong with that?"

"You can't," I say through my teeth, "just have one plan and assume everything is going to be okay. You don't know my father. He's not gonna give in."

Dean snorts. "He will eventually."

I look at him again. Those eyes like grass after rain. "Eventually's not good enough, Dean." I say it softly, kindly. Sadly.

The change in his face is painful; I almost cry out. "Cas..." His mouth wanders but closes after a few seconds.

"I don't see this ending well," I admit, feeling tears start to build behind my eyes. I grip the couch and shut my eyes for a few seconds to regain my composure.

"You need a reason, Cas. You can't just say that and expect me to understand what you mean," he says, quieter.

"My father's..." I take a deep breath. I don't want to use the word 'nefarious'. "Not your average man. His reputation is everything. I wholly believe he'd rather let me rot here than jeopardise that." Dean narrows his eyes, so I add, "Not that I _am _rotting."

"Jesus, Cas, in twenty years have you never once confronted him about this shit? If he treats you as bad as you're saying, man, you don't have to live like that!" His voice is surprisingly tender, giving the volume.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I tell him simply, but there's no hostility in it.

"Yeah, actually, I kinda do." He gives me a look, one that reminds me of his own past, his own father.

"That's different."

"All shitty dads are the same, Cas! Every single one has something so fundamentally wrong with them that they can't be _assed _to take care of an actual human life that they've actually created. If someone treats you badly, you stop it." His statement is so plain, he's treating me like a child.

"It sounds so simple when you put it like that, but there are other things to think about. My brothers - my mother - my _education -_"

"Damnit." Dean rocks forwards and is on his feet in one fluid movement. "Cas, you're not happy! You deserve to be happy!"

I look up at him from where I sit. I'm becoming more humiliated and angry by the second. "Fuck, _what do you want from me?_" I urge, pounding my thighs with my fists.

"Maybe next time I call Number One Dad, you should talk to him. Yell at him. Lay everything out there." He clenches and unclenches his jaw inbetween sentences. "He's gonna let you rot? He's gonna leave you in danger? Fuck that, man. You deserve better."

I'm on my feet now, and the words are coming thick and fast, like blood from a fatal wound, and I'm all out of towels. "You wouldn't be saying this if it weren't for the money, for your brother. How am I to know that you're not just pretending to care? Manipulating me into manipulating my father? I deserve better because you think you deserve the money." Great, now I'm crying. I keep my voice steady, though, but it's raising in volume. "I want to trust you, Dean, but you're not giving me any reason to."

"You think I'm lying to you? _Manipulating _you?!" He spins round, runs a hand through his hair down to his neck, kicks a chair over, and turns back to me. We're both yelling now. I hate yelling. "Okay, ignoring the obvious, have I ever given you any reason _not _to trust me?! Maybe you shouldn't jump to conclusions, Cas!"

My chest is getting tighter and my head is dizzy and I'm talking, I'm saying, "No! Yes, I don't - I don't _know, _it's just that you're the only person who's ever said that to me, that I deserve better, and I _don't _deserve better, I deserve exactly what I'm getting but I don't deserve _you _so I can't - I don't know - I can't..."

Oh, shit, not now, not _now._ My whole body starts to shake and I drop down onto the couch, my head instinctively falling between my knees and I wrap my arms around my head but it doesn't do any good because what I really need it to get _inside _my head and my chest is filled with water but it's on fire and what do I do what do I do what do I

I fall through layers of my thoughts and self-doubt and worries and fears, and as each door breaks to let me into its black depths it splinters me some more and another shake racks my body.

And then, on the edge of my awareness, I feel Dean. He sits down next to me, all anger seeped from him, and even though I can't think, even though I can't feel anything, I know what Dean would do, and I know that he's doing it. He places his hand on my back, then slides it up to my shoulder, then back and forth between the two places. His other hand is placed firmly on my knee, as he whispers, "it's okay, it's gonna be okay, I'm not gonna leave you, you're safe here," and other things on a loop right into my ear, lips on the skin, nose rubbing back and forth through my hair.

His voice is a hand that reaches into my building and pulls me up through the broken floors and stands me on the roof, and I can see everything now, I can do anything. He's humming now, softly, and singing a little, and the hand on my back has settled at my hip as I start to calm down, breathing steadying, feeling spreading up through my legs, pins and needles clearing from my eyes.

"_I've always loved you, and made you happy, and nothing else could come between, but now you've left me, to love another, you have shattered all of my dreams..."_

I remain silent for a few more moments, listening. What is that? What could that possibly be?

_"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."_

Dean. It's Dean. He's singing to me, still, even though I'm still.

He finishes the song, and starts it again, looping it around seamlessly.

_"The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke dear, I was mistaken, so I bowed my head and I cried."_

I allow myself to listen to the chorus one more time before raising my head and leaning back on the couch. "Sorry," I try to say. It's so hoarse, I'd laugh, if I could.

He hears me, though, replying with, "Don't." He pulls back from his vice-like grip around my body, keeping his hand on my knee. I lean into him, as I feel I can do. I breathe deeply. He wraps his arm around my shoulders once more and pulls me into him, kissing my scalp. Amazing.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he whispers into my hair. "I'm not gonna do that."

I'm so tired all of a sudden. It's dark outside, and Dean is so warm all the time. I can't remember much of what I've said to him. Hopefully I haven't said too much, though in all likelihood I've probably not said enough.

"Do you, uh. Do you wanna talk about it?" Dean asks me, managing not to trip up on his emotions too many times.

"Talk about what?" I murmur into his chest, breathing in his sweat and beer and salsa dip and new beginnings and old coffee and t-shirts and motor oil and every country I haven't been to.

He hesitates. "Get some sleep, Stockholm." He starts to leave, but I groan in protest, so he chuckles, and stays.

I fall asleep with his arms around me, with him humming softly in my ear, and stroking my hair with careful fingers. I can't help but think as I drift off about how not everything with a leak is necessarily broken.

* * *

"Cas. Wake up." The words are whispered harshly in my ear. They're unwelcome; I was having a nice dream. I was flying, carrying Dean along by the hand. He looked annoyed the whole time. I remember laughing with joy.

"_Cas._"

I open my eyes slowly, finding Dean's face to be inches from mine. I smile lazily. "Hey."

My vision clears and sharpens and I see Dean's expression. "What, what's going on."

His eyes flash around the room, and then back to mine. "Stay here," he whispers, standing. "I think someone's breaking in."

Immediately I sit up, awake as I've ever been. "Dean, wait."

"Don't worry." He shows me his gun, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. "Ain't my first rodeo."

"I'm coming with you," I say as I stand too, looking around for some sort of weapon. I consider picking up the television remote.

Dean sighs, knowing that it's practically useless to argue with me on this. "Fine. But stay behind me, keep your ears open, and don't do anything stupid."

"Fine."

"Oh, and shut up."

"_Fine."_

We glare at each other for a few seconds, before Dean starts to make his way towards the hallway, quickly but silently, holding his gun in both hands. It takes a lot of effort to mimic him, but I manage it.

The night is tense and the air is so cold. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I run a hand over it in an attempt to calm myself down. Dean glances back at me every twenty seconds or so; checking that I'm okay, I suppose. Or that there's no one behind me.

I'm afraid, and I haven't been afraid in a few days. The feeling comes back to me in a different way; it's more consuming now, but less paralysing. It's the sort of fear that shocks me into action.

There is a low light coming from the moon and a few rooms with the lights left on. I can just make out Dean's silhouette. He's tensed, his back a solid shield. I peer around me, looking out for him. If anyone's breaking into a place like this, chances are they're worse news than Dean.

I don't really know where we're going, but we're walking towards the noise. We turn corners left and right – this building is huge, and I wonder briefly whether Dean is renting or squatting. He's not stupid enough for the former, I don't think.

Dean holds out his hand behind him, fingers splayed slightly (an invitation). I take it with my own and squeeze slightly, mixing my fingers with his, each of us gaining warmth from the other. _I am still here, _we tell each other. He rubs my palm with his thumb before taking his hand back.

_Rain Dogs _is playing in my head again. I want Dean to be safe. There's a lot I haven't yet done to him.

We stop as Dean holds up his hand. There's another corner ahead, must be the last one. He looks over his shoulder at me and whispers, "Stay here." I roll my eyes but, after a few seconds of squinting into his eyes, I nod. He won't be far if he needs me. Besides, I've never fired a gun in my life. But I do have an effective right hook.

My heart fiddles as he turns the corner.

I wait in the silence. This is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Seconds pass like minutes, I can't even hear his footsteps.

And then I hear Dean say, thoroughly pissed off, "Are you kidding me."

A woman's voice responds to him. "Yeah, you're welcome. Gonna let us in?"

"What are you _doing?_" Dean cries. I frown. Does he know this woman? Is it just her?

"Saving your ass," says a man with a gruff voice and the hint of an accent. I hear them shove their way past Dean. I relax, leaning against the wall, and I'm about to join them when I hear –

"Ah, you gotta be Dean. I'm Adonis Novak. Castiel may have referred to me as his idol? Sex coach? Soulmate?"

"Gabriel," I whisper under my breath in unadulterated shock. I swing myself around the corner and stalk up to him. He looks different; less groomed. The woman and man Dean knows are standing by him. I don't recognise them.

Gabriel turns to me. "Hey, little brother!" He grins, and for once, he's not being sarcastic with his love. "Man, it's good to see you."

I stop in front of him, unsure how to proceed. I wasn't expecting this at all. This wasn't part of the plan. "What's going on?"

His face falls a little, but only in the eyes. He keeps up the grin. "Well, I'm here to save you, ain't I?" Then he lunges forwards to wrap me in a hug and the air is knocked from my lungs and I'm coughing "Gabe... can't... breathe..." while he's slapping my back and calling me "Cassie".

"Alright, enough with the family reunions," says Dean. His voice and Gabriel's embrace make me wonder what I call home anymore. "You wanna tell us what you think you're doing?"

I pull back from Gabriel, who keeps a hand on my shoulder. I haven't seen him this happy in a while. I don't understand. Was he looking for me? Why would he be?

"Dean, you gotta have some manners. These are classy people." The woman jerks her head towards me and my brother. I blush and Dean purses his lips. She turns to me and smiles. "Sorry about this big doofus. I'm Ellen, and this here's Bobby." Bobby grunts in acknowledgement.

Recognition sweeps its brush across my eyes, and Dean notices, shaking his head minutely. Too complicated to go into how I know who they are.

"I'm Castiel," I say, the name sounding weird in my mouth. The corner of Dean's mouth turns up and he looks at me. We haven't said it in so long. I debate holding out my hand for Ellen and Bobby to shake, but decide against it. I don't know whether we're friends yet. "This is Dean," I say to Gabriel. "Dean, this is my brother, Gabriel."

"_Older _brother," says Gabriel, reaching out to shake Dean's hand. Dean accepts it, nervously, like he's meeting my parents. "And better." I shoot him a look. He winks.

I take a look around the four people in front of me. Yes. This could be a family. I can see this working.

I'm getting ahead of myself. There's still a lot to be discussed. "How did you find us?"

Ellen raises her eyebrows at the word "us", but Gabriel shoots straight into an explanation. Dean is standing across from me in the makeshift circle. To be honest, I'd be more comfortable by his side. Shit, I'm screwed.

"Okay, it was really my genius plan," Gabriel says, but there's no hint of smugness in his voice, only pride. "So I was looking for you cos Dad said we couldn't call the police because of the press and the bad publicity, right? So I figured last place anyone really knew you was that party, and I narrowed down your list of friends to girls cos man, you gotta teach me how to do that –"

"Gabe," I say, holding up my hand. "Could we have the abridged version, please?" I feel Dean's gaze on me. _Don't worry, _I tell him with my eyes. _I don't swing that way. _He nods slightly in response. My heart smiles.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. "Jeez, haven't seen me in a week and you're asking for the cliff notes. Fine, uh, I found Dean on the CCTV at the bank and looking for him led me to Ellen and Bobby and Sam." It might just be the adrenaline running through my veins, but I might have seen Gabriel's smile widen just a little at the last name. "And then they had this awesome plan too, okay, let me take you back to a couple days ago –"

Just as he begins spreading his hands to add an element of mystery, a gun goes off outside. I jump.

Another shot is fired, aiming above us, at the space above the warehouse.

"What the hell?" Bobby mutters. Dean brings his gun up again, cocks it.

The door is closed. We stand in a line, watching in the low light, as we hear footsteps approaching.

And then the last person I'd expected to see kicks down the door.


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: Cries because last chapter. There's gonna be an epilogue though, so drop me a review if there's anything unresolved, or anything you wanna see! I really can't stress enough how much this much feedback means to me. Like, at one point I was just crying because of the reviews. God, it's amazing. I just love you so much. Uh, my next thing should be up in the next couple weeks, probably sooner rather than later. It's the 10k one (probably turning into 15k at this rate) and it's destiel, of course. I've been working hard on it for so long omg, about four months now. It would mean the world to me if you would check it out when it's up. But you don't have to, free country. I just want you to be happy. Keep being awesome. U R Supa Cool.**_

* * *

_Chapter Fourteen_

"I knew it," he says, slamming the door behind him. "I knew you were trying to get one over on me. Can't trust anyone these days, huh? Not even your own sons."

"Dad, what the Hell?" Gabriel yells, immediately crossing over to stand in front of me. "What are you _doing?_"

"I'm many things, Gabriel, but I'm not an idiot. I suspected all along that this was down to you, that there was something fishy in the mix." He narrows his eyes as he looks between my brother and me. "And I was right."

"You think we planned this?" I say, appalled. "You think we were in on this? This isn't a scam, we're not playing you for money! For God's sakes, how could you even _think _that?!" Anger rises in me. Gabriel places a hand on my shoulder, standing beside me now.

"Okay, okay," Dean says, not wanting to be left out of the loop. He holds his hands up and stands between Gabriel and my father. "Let's calm down here. I think there's been a misunderstanding. Just let me explain and we can all go home happy."

It's then I notice that Dean's gun is still in his hand, and he's holding it up as if he's surrendering it. My father is holding a gun, too.

"Dad, put the gun down," I tell him, calmly. It's the first time I've called him that in years. I'm hoping that I can appeal to his human side. It's in vain; I don't think he has one anymore.

"Castiel, this isn't your concern," he says harshly, looking Dean straight in the eye now.

Dean looks back, jaw clenched, unmoving, unwavering. "No one needs to get hurt here. We can come to a –"

My father pulls back the safety on his pistol with a sneer. "No, I don't think that'll do at all. Castiel, Gabriel, take these two –" he jerks his head towards Ellen and Bobby, who stand poised and ready by Dean "– and get somewhere out of our hair. The grown-ups have some talking to do."

"No way," I reply, to nods of agreement by the other three.

"Do as I say!" He yells, and points the gun in my direction. My heart begins to ache.

Suddenly Dean, taking advantage of the brief confusion, grabs my father's arm and knocks the gun from his hand. He kicks it away and points his own.

"Okay!" He shouts, looking round at all of us. "_Now_ can we calm the fuck down?"

"Very nice," my father comments, his voice like slime, oozing from his mouth, hard to get out of your ears. He's annoyed, but he's got pride, I'll give him that, and he's not petty. "You don't seem like the usual guys." And he says it like he has experience.

"What d'you mean?" Dean asks before I get the chance to.

"I've been here before," says my father, tilting his head up. "Someone kidnapped one of my children before."

"Dad?" Gabriel says, looking between him and Dean. "What are you talking about?"

"Remember how your brother Samandriel died in that car accident a few years ago?"

"Of course," I say. "But what..." _does that have to do with anything_, I would have said, if I didn't know the answer.

My father looks at Dean now, proud, almost, of what he's saying. "My reputation is everything, boy. You can't hope to blackmail me."

"Then why are you even here?" Dean spits. "Why would you come all this way for your son if you didn't even care if I killed him?"

"Oh, but he's working against me, isn't he?" Dick pulls back his lips, baring his teeth. "I had to see the body for myself."

"You bastard," I breathe, and he finally meets my eye after all this. There's no emotion in his eyes, no _regret_, no _shame,_ not even any _anger._ Well, I can make up for that.

I launch myself towards him, the path already being laid in my mind, just to hit and hit and never look back, just to _hurt, _hurt him like he's hurt me my entire _life, _to show him _some _of what he's done to me, and I _do _deserve better, for the first time in my life I'm seeing that I _do_, that just because he's my father doesn't mean he's my dad, doesn't mean I have to become like him, but I can sure as hell destroy him –

But there's Gabriel holding me back, wrapping his arms around my chest, and I'm thrashing and yelling "YOU BASTARD!", but I can't get to him, all I can do is cry like a child, it's happened again, he's making me feel like a child again, and I'm not sure if I'm hearing right through my shouts and the blood rushing in my ears but I think I hear him laughing, I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna kill him, "I BELIEVED IN YOU!", I'm gonna _kill _him –

"Cas isn't working against you!" Dean tells him, wrapping his hands more tightly around the gun, the possibility that he's going to shoot it becoming more and more likely, yes, do it, fucking kill him, bastard, everything is his fault – "I kidnapped him cos I need the money for – something important, and Gabriel was looking for him and so were these guys and they must have worked together to get here to get Cas back! And then _you _come barging in and fuck up the whole thing!"

"What 'whole thing'?" Dick says, raising an eyebrow and looking at me again. My face is turning red and my muscles are starting to burn. I can't look at him. I have to calm down. I have to sort myself out or I'm going to do something stupid. I look instead at Dean, at the back of his head, at the line of his shoulders, at where his shirt is untucked from his jeans, at his bare feet, at the holes in his jeans, and I wonder if he goes without the small luxuries for the sake of his brother. I have to fix this somehow. For Sam. For Dean.

"Oh." Dick is still looking at me. He's looking at me while I look at Dean. "Oh, I see. Stockholm Syndrome, is that it?" He laughs, throwing his head back. "Oh, this is so cute. Priceless. You don't get this on cable, I'll tell you that."

"Shut your mouth," Dean says firmly, angry, repositioning his hands on the gun, holding it higher, reminding Dick that it's there.

"Oh, and you like him back! My God, where's the Kleenex when you need them?" He grins and licks his lips. "Okay, okay. Enough flirting. How about you give Castiel back to me, and I hand you and your buddies over to the police? How does that sound."

Dean cocks his head as he pretends to deliberate. "Uh... no, I don't think so."

"Alright, how about I just shoot you, and let your buddies go?"

"No dice, padre. See, I'm the one with the gun."

Dick's grin widens, throwing shadows over his face. You should always be afraid of what's in the dark, I've learned, especially the darkness in people. "We'll see about that."

"Jesus, you don't have to be so melodramatic about it," says Bobby, speaking up. We all turn to look at him, and he rolls his eyes. "Dean just wants a bit of money, so give it to him, and everybody wins."

"I don't win," Dick says.

"You get your friggin' son back alive and well! Ain't that enough?"

"That's not winning. That's just giving me back what I had before."

Bobby stares at him in confusion and shock before raising his eyebrows and muttering, "Crazy son of a bitch."

Gabriel's arms around me have turned into a sort of embrace. I think he needs it. Dick's barely acknowledged his existence. I don't think he cares what happens to him. I doubt Gabriel cares either.

"Okay, stalemate," Dean says, focusing our attention once again. "You want me gone, whether it's jail or death. Surprisingly, I don't want that. But we do have one thing in common." He jerks his head back towards me. "We both want Cas alive and well."

"What makes you think I want that?"

"Stow your crap for five seconds, man. Cas isn't betraying you, so there's no reason you'd actively want him dead. If you come out of this situation with nothing more than a dead son, that counts as losing. Cas is currency to you. You get him, you win the game." He says it as if he's ashamed, as if he's sorry. I wish I could see his face. But more importantly, I wish I could touch it.

Dick sighs, setting his lips in a straight line. He nods once. "Nicely put. But you neglected to mention one thing."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"There are other ways to win the game."

Everything happens very fast.

First, Dick reaches out behind him. His hand touches the wall at the same time as Dean cocks the gun. The lights are turned off.

Then, Gabriel tightens his hold on me, pulling me back and to the side, away from Dick, away from Bobby and Ellen, away from Dean.

After that, there's a brief flash of light. There's a gunshot. There's a thud.

I hear Ellen yell, "Lights! Get the lights!" They come back on and I squint and see the door swing shut, my father on the other side.

I look down and follow the pool of blood to its source: Dean.

The next thing I know I'm being called after by my brother as I'm flying after Dick, running so fast that my legs shake beneath me, and I jump and tackle him from behind, and we fall to the hard ground, both of us landing on my hip, and I cry out a little, but I keep hold of him.

I spin him so he's on his back. His face is all scrunched up for a second but then he opens his eyes and looks at me and raises his eyebrows and looks so amused that all worries and hesitancies I had about how much I hate him are thrown out.

I reel back my arm and punch him in the face.

For a moment I admire my handiwork, looking at the blood he spits from his mouth, lining his teeth as he bares them at me, grinning, egging me on. I punch him again and again and so many times I lose count but still again and again and I can't stop, I don't want to stop, I hit him harder than he used to hit me because he deserves it and I didn't.

Gabriel's voice gets closer and closer and my father's face gets less and less recognisable under the mask of blood but then I'm being hauled off, thrown to the ground, and I see Gabriel standing over me, breathing heavily. He looks at Dick for a few moments. He spits on him. He holds out a hand to help me up. I take it.

We both stand and breathe, looking down at what's left of our father. He's still breathing, of course, but unconscious. I chuckle a little as I think about what his face is going to look like. Probably something like his soul.

And then I remember –

"Dean," I whisper, turning immediately back to the warehouse and running even faster than I did when I was leaving, throwing myself through the door and kneeling by Dean in one fluid movement.

He's awake, head leaning back on the floor, hand pressed to his shoulder. His eyes are squeezed shut and his legs writhe a little in pain. I push his hair back from his forehead, which is drenched in sweat. "Dean."

One of his eyes opens and he searches for me, finding my face before opening the other. "Cas," he replies, voice rough. "I knew it was a bad idea to meet your parents."

I laugh, but it sounds like a sob. "Where are you hit?"

"Shoulder," he says, looking down towards where his hand is pressed. It's on his left side, a few inches above his heart.

Ellen and Bobby run back in, both holding cloth and towels. Ellen passes hers to me as she pulls her phone out of her pocket and dials 911. Bobby kneels down opposite me and pries Dean's hand off the wound. The smell is overwhelming: rust and copper and wetness. I look at it. It looks bad.

Bobby tears Dean's shirt around the wound as I use my rag to wipe at his forehead. Dean's eyes are unfocused but I can tell he's trying to look at me. My eyes don't leave his. I keep my breathing steady. I cannot afford to break down. I can deal with the emotions later. Right now I need to save his life.

"I need an ambulance ASAP, my son's been shot, he's not breathing," Ellen says into her phone.

"It's faster," Bobby mutters to me, pushing down with his towel, earning a low groan from Dean as his head stirs.

"Yeah, we're at 231 Lennon Road. His name is Dean Winchester."

I turn to him, eyes wide. "Winchester."

He looks at me. "I'm sorry," he says, "I was gonna tell you properly, I swear I was." It takes him too long to get out the sentence.

"I know." I wipe his forehead and try to smile. "I know you were."

"We need to keep him warm until the ambulance arrives," Bobby tells me. "You got like a coat or a blanket or something?"

"Third door on the right, my trench coat's on the chair." He gets up, gesturing me to take over the towel.

"Please don't die," I whisper to Dean while we're alone. "I don't want you to die."

"I'm not goin' anywhere, baby," he slurs. "Can't get rid of me that easy."

"I smashed my father's face in, if that helps."

He smiles lazily. "It does, yeah." He starts coughing.

"Don't do that," I yell suddenly as his wound starts bleeding more. "Just – stay still, okay? Stay still, and stay with me."

"I'm not gonna leave you." His eyes well up a little as he looks at me. "I promised, remember? I promised. I'm not gonna leave you."

I start to cry. "You fucking better not."

"I'm gonna be fine. It's... all gonna be fine. I'm here. I'm not... gonna leave you."

"I'm not gonna leave you, either." I lean down to kiss him. Just once, just lightly. To remind him of how much I mean it.

And then he blacks out.

* * *

I tell them I'm his brother so I can ride in the ambulance with him. I keep stroking his hair as I whisper things to him, and I don't even know what I'm saying, neither of us can hear me, but I keep saying them anyway, because that's better than saying nothing at all.

People are working on him, cutting through the rest of his clothes and putting an oxygen mask on him and a thing on his finger and his heartbeat's reading as too slow, so people are yelling at the driver to go as fast as he can and I'm so scared, but I don't have a panic attack, I don't scream, I don't break down, not yet. I know Dean. He's gonna put up a fight.

They tell me it'll take around twenty minutes to get to a hospital and I ask if he's going to be alright but no one will answer me. Either they don't know, or they do.

He doesn't wake up on the way there, even once we arrive and there are so many noises that I don't know where to look, so I just keep looking at him. They pull the stretcher out of the van and I move to follow but someone's holding me back and I'm not strong enough to push their arms away and I watch as he gets smaller and smaller and smaller, moving towards the light of the hospital.

I look up at the sky once he's disappeared from my view. It's cloudy. It's going to rain soon. I can tell. I can always tell.

* * *

_Looking back on it, I believe the word you'd use is tragedy. You can't turn a corner these days without coming across a tragedy._

_But not everything is a tragedy. Not everyone has to be a sob story, or a reason not to live. This story is worth telling more because of what doesn't happen than what does. Dean's always been one to defy expectations, hasn't he?_

_Not everything is a tragedy. Not us. Not today._

* * *

The beeps of a heart monitor always amuse me. It's like they're reducing people down into data. Then again, you could think of it as music. It speeds up at the crescendo, slows down as everything relaxes. There are two ways to look at it, as there are at most things.

I walk into Dean's hospital room and the music becomes erratic, jumping over itself. I smile inwardly and outwardly.

Dean looks over at me and grins. "Hey, Cas, man of the hour."

"I think cheating death is more worthy of that title." I look to the man sitting in a wheelchair next to him and, realising we haven't met, hold out my hand. "Castiel Novak."

The man beams and takes my hand. "Sam Winchester."

My mouth falls open. "It's – I – it's an honour to finally meet you."

"You, too. Dean won't shut up about you."

"Can it, Sammy."

Sam glares at him, looking like he wants to shove him, but knowing he can't. "God, I thought morphine would make you more bearable."

"What are you talking about, I'm a delight." He looks at me and winks. I roll my eyes.

"Any updates?" I ask, sitting down on the other side of Dean and taking his hand in two of mine.

"Nah. They still think I'm gonna be in here for a couple more weeks." He narrows his eyes at me suddenly. "Also, I tried to tell them I don't have health insurance, but apparently that's already been cleared. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say innocently.

"Yeah, sure you don't." He smiles a little, though. "Just – thank you."

"Don't mention it. No, really. It's all pretty illegal." Dean laughs, and Sam smiles. It's a good look on him. He looks like a good man.

"I've heard a lot about you," I tell Sam. "How are you feeling?"

He nods, avoiding my eye. "Yeah, I'm good. A little better, I think."

Dean sighs, as if he's heard this a thousand times before, and knows it's a lie. I pretend to believe it, replying with, "That's good."

I squeeze Dean's hand before dropping it and standing up. "Dean, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Sam outside for a moment."

Dean looks suspicious, naturally, but says, "Don't be too long. I know you're planning my birthday party, you two. Remember: pie and strippers. It can be at fuckin' _Chucky Cheese _for all I care, just make sure you got those two things."

Sam tells him fondly to "shut up" before following me out of the room.

I shut the door behind us and turn to him.

"If this is about the money," Sam begins, "it's okay, you don't need to pay for anything. We've got it covered. In a couple of months we'll have earned most of it back, and by then –"

I hold up my hand to stop him. Sam looks ill, his cheeks hollow and his hair limp. There are serious bags under his eyes and his handshake was weak and skinny. Luckily, I can change that.

"Sam, it seems that you've been in involved in an elaborate scam. I had a doctor look at your bloodwork, and it seems you were misdiagnosed." I smile. "Your illness is highly treatable."

He just looks confused. "But I went to a doctor –"

"Who recommended that doctor?"

His eyes widen, and then darken. "Crowley."

"I looked him up, and it seems this is what he does. He makes deals with the sick that turn sour. Was the doctor with a private practice?"

"I, uh – yeah, he said it was free because we were friends..." He shakes his head, not sure whether to be angry or start crying out of relief, so he does both. "Oh my God."

"Sam." He looks up at me with shining eyes. "You're gonna be fine."

"How do I treat it? How much does it cost? Where –"

"I'll take care of that." He starts to protest, so I interrupt again. "I insist. You're brother's done so much for me, it's the least I can do. Anyway, I'm planning on making as much of a dent in my father's fortune as I can. Just this morning I gave away about ten percent to a children's charity. It's not much, but I'm trying to right some wrongs."

"What wrongs?"

"My father's."

Sam nods. "I knew you were something special. Dean gets all doe-eyed when he talks about you, it's kind of pathetic." He beams up at me. "It's probably not gonna mean anything, but dude, you have my blessing."

"Thank you, Sam. That means a lot."

* * *

Sam, Gabriel and I sit around Dean as if he's a campfire as Gabe tells the full story of how they found us at that warehouse. It seems so long ago now, even though it's only been a few days. Dean's neighbour, Ruby, has been arrested for stealing the original money for Sam's treatment – "bitch," Dean had yelled, throwing his juice cup across the room – and I've managed to call my father out on more than a few tax evasions, ensuring he'll go to jail for long enough to "put the fear of God in him", as Dean puts it.

"Okay, so I went back to your apartment with Ellen," Gabriel says, enjoying the spotlight. "And there I see Bobby about to leave. So I'm like, 'hey man, where you goin' with that piece of paper?' and Bobby's like, 'ya darn idjit, I'm gon' leave this down there in ma dang barn so my dang son can read the gosh-darn thing, idjit!' And then I'm like, 'if Dean's gonna read it, why can't we just lie low and wait for him to come get it, and then see where he goes?' This, of course, blew everyone's mind."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're forgetting the part about how you overcame your extreme prejudice to come out the other side valiantly."

Gabriel looks at him fondly. I raise my eyebrows in question, but he doesn't see. "Oh, yeah, right. So I was like, 'wait, why should I help you? How do I know you're not luring me there to kill me?' And then Ellen was like,

'honey, sweet sweet baby, lemme show you a thing.' So she brought me to see little Sammy here, and Sam was all like, 'Dean's a good guy, he's just trying to help me, blah blah blah, smouldering look,' and I, of course, swooned so hard I agreed to help." He winks at Sam, who blushes and rolls his eyes again.

Dean catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. I shrug.

"Yeah yeah yeah, okay okay, so then we hatched our brilliant plan to follow you out and haul your dumb asses back home, cos you were being complete morons, I'm telling you. We put it into action, and voila. Here we are." He spreads his arms out, nearly hitting Dean in the face. "Of course, Sammy was a bit worried about being left all alone, so I gave him something for good luck." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam reaches across to Gabriel, where he sits next to him, and slaps him on the arm. "Hey! He gave me a cell phone," he clarifies to us, but from the way Gabriel is grinning, I don't quite believe him. Dean is laughing quietly to himself. I smile. It seems that unlikely partnerships are arising everywhere these days.

"Okay, but I didn't go get the letter until way before you guys came into the warehouse," Dean says, fiddling with the controls for his bed, trying to sit up more.

"Well we had to hatch another plan, didn't we, butthead? Honestly, you didn't get the looks _or _the brains in this family." He smirks, standing and snapping his fingers before pointing to the door. "Right, that's the whole saga. Not as gripping as _Twilight, _I know, but _I_ think it's a better love story. I'm gonna get a pudding cup. Sammy, you wanna come with? Leave the odd couple alone?"

"Sure," Sam replies, shooting his brother a _play nice _glance before wheeling himself after Gabe.

Dean and I have hardly been alone since we got out of the warehouse. I decide to make the most of the opportunity, crossing the room to shut the door after Sam and Gabe have left. Dean raises his eyebrows at this, a smile playing on his lips. "Taking precautions, are we? For what?"

"You never shut up, do you?" I sit down on the edge of his bed and rest my arms on either side of his head.

"I can't help but feel like we're forgetting something," Dean says quietly, skirting his eyes down to trace along the lines of my lips.

"Who cares," I whisper back, slowly lowering myself closer to him. "Everything's gonna be okay. We have all the time in the world."

It hasn't rained in a week. My judgement was wrong. But that's okay. Because it feels like it will never rain again.


End file.
